


Rearrange

by Imnotahero



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU after 5b, Canon Compliant, Canon Dialogue, Derek Hale Remembers Stiles Stilinski, Derek and Cora bonding, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Follows season 5b, Friends to Lovers, Guilt, Hale Family Feels, Inner Dialogue, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Derek, POV Derek Hale, POV Stiles, Phone Calls & Telephones, Skype, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles is taken by the wild hunt, Texting, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wild Hunt, alternate season 6, fills in some blanks, no one remembers but Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 96,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9272165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imnotahero/pseuds/Imnotahero
Summary: Derek crouches down in front of him. “Hey, look at me,” he says softly. Stiles huffs pathetically to camouflage how thrown he is by all of this, but finally obliges.“I’m not gonna disappear into the night without a trace. We’ll keep in touch, okay?”“Sure,” says Stiles sarcastically. “When have you ever returned a text? Called unless your pants were on fire? Excuse me for being skeptical.”__________Season 5B and beyond told through Stiles' and Derek's off-screen interactions, inner musings and personal discoveries. A little bit angsty with a dash of fluff and a pinch of plot. Slow burn, so wear sunscreen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows the events of season 5b, with one minor change: Braeden didn't arrive in Beacon Hills at the end of 5a. Instead, she's still on the road with Derek. She'll return soon enough, and be there for the part with the Desert Wolf.
> 
> Some scenes and dialogue are plucked directly from the show, but mostly this story explores what goes on inside the heads of Stiles and Derek, and their interactions (and sometimes lack thereof) off-screen. It will expand beyond season 5b, and ignore most of what happens in season 6, mainly because I haven't seen any of it beyond the occasional gifset. Shifting POVs between Stiles and Derek. So, basically no big, complicated plot this time. 
> 
> This fic is posted unbetaed, which means all mistakes, horrid grammar, and stupid typos, are mine and mine alone (and now shared with you):

“Stilinski, right? You said his insurance was with the County? He's a Deputy?”

The nurse behind the desk looks frazzled and stressed. She frowns at her screen and hammers away at the keyboard like it’s personally offended her somehow. Stiles is hunched over the counter, heart racing, pulse pumping. He’s nothing but worry and fear. Fear for his dad. Terrified to the point where he feels like he needs to throw up. He can hardly concentrate on what she’s saying. All he wants is to go see how he’s doing. To make sure he’ll - Stiles whimpers softly. He can’t even entertain the thought of losing him.

Something registers through the fog of nerves and all-consuming stress.

“No,” he says, thoroughly offended. “He's the Sheriff, he's the County Sheriff. Okay.”

Stiles is aware he sounds angry and gruff, but he can’t reign it in. The nurse purses her lips and keeps clacking away, probably trying to find his insurance papers on file.

“He's covered,” Stiles adds frantically, wringing his hands, tearing at his hair. “I mean he should be covered…”

He startles when someone grabs him by the shoulder.

“I'll take care of it.”

It’s Melissa and Stiles breaths deeply in relief. It only lasts for a split second. She looks about as bad as he feels.

“I texted Scott,” she says hurriedly, pulling him away from the desk nurse. “He's coming as soon as he can. I can call Malia.”

Stiles balks.

“No, no, no,” he cuts her off. “Don't, don't call anyone.”

He can’t deal with Malia now. Not with how they left things, which Stiles sort of believes was a wacky sort of breakup. At least it felt like a breakup. There had been a finality to it, somehow. He should probably make sure. But not now. He doesn’t even want to see Scott, but can’t bring himself to say anything in front of Melissa. She’s been nothing but good to him, all things considered. It’s not her fault Scott is a white hat wearing, self proclaimed hero, set to dictate rules no one can live up to. Yeah, they definitely have issues that needs addressing.

“Is there anyone else we need to notify? A next of kin?”

Stiles startles and turns back towards the admission nurse who’s looking caught between inquiry and sympathy. He shakes his head, feeling the echo of his aching heart chip away at his sanity.

“No, it's me,” he answers, voice oddly flat. “It's just me.”

 

**

 

Stiles hates waiting. Most people do. It’s hardly a unique trait or anything, but he truly hates it. Despises it with every fiber of his being, way past dislike and well into abhor territory. Rationally, he knows this is partly because of his ADHD, which makes him a restless person on the best of days. Truthfully though, that is just an excuse to hide behind. Mostly it’s because of his mom.

Her hospitalization and illness were nothing but waiting. Waiting for results. Waiting for tests. Waiting for signs of improvement. Waiting, hoping, praying, and then waiting some more. In the end it was all for nothing. And now Stiles is waiting again. Same hospital, same uncomfortable chair with its mossy green fabric and stiff backs that make it impossible to find a comfortable position. Same old vending machine, with the same old and miserable selections, and the same fucking art on the walls. The only difference is Stiles’ age, the length of his hair and that it’s now his dad strapped to a hospital bed, fighting for his life.

With so many similarities, what’s to stop history from repeating? It’s a paralyzing thought.

Stiles shakes out of his black ruminations, feeling disorientated. He has no idea how much time has passed since he got here. Since they wheeled his dad off to surgery. It could be an hour, maybe even two. Or as little as ten minutes. Stiles awkwardly fishes out his phone and glares at the time. 05:13 AM. It really doesn’t tell him anything useful. He has no idea when they arrived, just that it was dark out.

He stuffs the phone angrily back in his pocket and goes back to worrying. Another eternity trickles by. In real time it’s just twenty minutes. Stiles contemplates tracking down Melissa again, but talks himself out of it. She’d been by to inform him she’ll be present during the operation. She will find him as soon as it’s over. All Stiles can do is wait.

He tries to distract himself by listening in on the people sitting behind him, murmuring to each other. It’s a young couple - or no, it’s a brother and sister. They’re waiting for news on their dad who’s had a bypass operation. They’re arguing halfheartedly about who should go get their grandma when he wakes up. Stiles wishes he even had grandparents, but they’re all dead. He has no memories of any of them, only shares his name with his mom’s father. He died when he was just a baby, and as far as Stiles is concerned, took the tongue-twister of a name with him to his grave. Somewhere in his room is a set of forms half filled out for Stiles to legally change it so he can officially leave the pile of unpronounceable consonants behind once and for all. He never even met the guy he’s named after, and with his mom long gone, there is no one left to offend.

Still, the final step of completing it is always a little out of reach. The forms have been lying there incomplete for close to six months. He’ll probably still have them six years from now.

 

*

 

The clock moves past 6 AM, and how long can a surgery last, anyway? Stiles paces the corridors for the next couple of minutes, annoying the night shift staff and fighting tooth and nail not to break down in hysterics. He finds a few coins in his pockets and spends them on the last pack of Reese’s cups in the vending machine. He avoids looking at the best before stamp. Something tells him he doesn’t want to know.

Then it’s back to waiting.

Yeah, no. Stiles needs a distraction. Sitting here on this green monstrosity listening to beeps and chatter, not knowing anything is slowly killing him. It’ll take the last of his sanity away before long, and he honestly has so little to spare.

It’s back to his phone. Candy Crush or any other game is a no go. Twitter holds his attention for less than a minute. There’s too many words on Reddit and too many pictures on Tumblr. Facebook is just - yuk. All Stiles really wants is for someone - anyone, to tell him everything will be alright. But that requires him to talk about shit. Explain. Melissa said Scott would come, but just the thought of _him_ makes Stiles’ blood boil. He knows it isn’t entirely fair, and that it's yet another thing he should talk about, which circles them right back to the initial problem.

Stiles really has no one to talk to. He wasn’t lying to that nurse earlier. It really is just him.

Well, there’s Lydia. But it’s close to 6 AM and he knows better than to wake her at this hour. That's a boldfaced lie, though. Or, it was true. A year ago. Now, Lydia would drop things in a heartbeat, but that would just lead back to questions about Scott, which requires explaining about Donovan - and yeah. No. Just no.

Stiles ends up sending a couple of inane snaps to Isaac, Danny and Jackson. It’s a photo of his shoe with the caption **_“Waiting for the other shoe to drop”_**. It makes no sense, yet it does, and it makes him feel better for about three seconds. He’s reached out, albeit clumsily and halfheartedly. In a fit of near-insanity - or perhaps it was just a slip of his thumb - Stiles also sends it to Derek. Yeah, Derek has snapchat. It’s mental.

He feels his pulse quicken as he sits uncharacteristically still, waiting for any reactions or comebacks. At 6:11 Isaac has opened it. A few seconds later Stiles snorts loudly earning him a stern glare from a passing nurse. Isaac, predictably, sent back a snap and it’s a closeup of a scarf. There’s no caption or wittisism, but then again Isaac never was one for snappy comebacks.

Danny’s message comes a few minutes later and is anything but uplifting.

_Is that blood on your shoe? Remind me to extend my absence. Hope UR ok._

The smiley emoji taunts him. Stiles was looking for - well, comfort ideally. At the very least someone in his corner, even if they don’t have all the facts. Now, he’s stuck with a scarf, a smiley, and someone thankful to be miles away.

Jackson’s reply is a blurred image of his own scowling face, a raised middle finger in clear focus, flipping him off. Somehow that isn’t so bad. Anything else from that douche and it would feel fake. Stiles almost smiles and resists the urge to return the favor.

Derek opens it at 06:27 AM. Stiles holds his breath for an impossible long time, until his lungs scream for oxygen. Even after he’s back to breathing normally, nothing happens. A reply never comes. Stiles isn’t surprised, yet surprisingly disappointed. He goes back to worrying full time, biting his nails until his cuticles actually hurts. The pain is welcome, familiar and probably deserved, so he just keeps going.

Eventually he falls into a fitful sleep, the echo of his father’s voice like a reassuring melody in his ears.

 

 

 

 

** ~ **

 

 

 

“You should get the pancakes.”

Braeden is flipping through the diner menu, tracing her fingers down page after page. Derek closes his eyes and leans back, biting down the urge to berate her about the billions of bacteria she’s currently swiping her digit across. No offense to the folks frequenting this place, but it looks to be about 90 % truckers and 10 % hobos. Derek has nothing against any of them, but questions their hygiene routines. The guy across from them has a blot of ketchup on his shirt, perfectly placed right next to what looks like yesterday’s ketchup. And, awesome! Derek winces, and turns his attention away. He just wiped his greasy hands on his jeans. Basically, he’s providing Derek with empirical evidence to support his theory this dump will never pass a Health inspection.

Braeden pauses, moving her finger from the menu to her face and Derek almost loses it. She arches an eyebrow and stares at him quizzically. Yeah, perhaps he lost it, just a little.

“You alright?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned. She reaches for his hand and he flinches back. A hurt look flashes across her face. Derek contemplates explaining it’s not her, it’s the bacteria, but doesn’t. Part of him knows that’s not entirely true. He’s just not ready to admit to it.

“I’m fine,” he says, forcing a smile that he knows comes off more disturbing than reassuring. Laura used to call it his “creep-grin”.

“Sure you are.”

Braeden drags the words out, leaving no doubt that she’s calling his bluff, but she doesn’t pursue it. For now. Derek can scent the frustration rolling off her in waves. It’s just a matter of time before it comes to some sort of confrontation. Derek sucks at confrontations. Conversations at large are still something that feels more like a chore than something he enjoys. Finding the right words is still a struggle. In most cases, Derek just gives up. Somewhere in the back of his mind the ghost of Laura is tutting disapprovingly. She does that a lot.

“Honestly, though. You should get the pancakes. You’re in a funk - “

“I’m not.”

“You’re growling and brooding. Ergo, you’re in a funk. You need a pick-me-up.”

Derek rolls his eyes. Sometimes Braeden is just as annoying as St-.

He stops himself before he can fully finish that thought, whatever it was.

“What’s with you this morning?”

Okay, now she sounds put upon. Derek arches an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he says, feeling a remnant of his sixteen year old self rear his sulking head.  
  
“You’re growling. Literally. In what state-” Braden shakes her head. “Correction, on what _planet_ is that nothing?”

“I’m just hungry.”

“So,” she sweeps her hand - the one with the bacteria-covered finger - over the table in a voila manner, probably meant to be smooth. It’s not. Braeden is many things. Smooth is not one of them. “Get the pancakes,” she finishes, looking impossibly smug.

“No.”

“No? Why not? It’s pancakes! Who doesn’t like pancakes? That’s very non-American of you. It’s probably unconstitutional. Hold on, let me check.”

She turns around, tilting her head in the direction of the counter, where a somewhat frazzled-looking waitress with a frayed apron is pouring coffee while simultaneously wiping down the counter with a filthy rag. Derek can smell it from here. God, this place is a dump!

“Excuse me, miss.”

Braeden’s tone is saccharine and has adopted a southern twang to it. She sounds ludicrous.

“Is there by chance any laws in this state against liking pancakes? I feel like there should be.”

The waitress purses her mouth in a practiced manner. A dive like this probably attracts all the crazies. Derek makes a mental note to tip her generously. She simply shakes her head and turns towards another customer. Braeden pouts.

“Perhaps she doesn’t speak the language,” she mutters with a shrug.

Derek snorts. Her name tag reads ‘Dolores Mae’. He’s willing to bet good money she’s all American bred and proud of it. Besides, he can hear her talk from across the room. He doesn’t tell Braeden this, though. In his experience, that would only lead to a continued focus on the matter, and he’s not interested. Not even a little.

“Fine then, Mr. Grump.” Braeden is back to perusing The Bacteria Cesspool, capitalization totally warranted. “I’m getting the pancakes, heavy on the syrup and a gallon of coffee. You?”

“I’m not all that hungry,” Derek mumbles, thinking longingly about the Organic market they passed a few miles back.

“Yeah, right. That’s a load of bull. You just said you were grumpy because you’re hungry.”

“I didn’t.”

Braeden gapes. “Did too. Minutes ago. Seriously, Derek. I feel like you’re trying to tell me something here, without actually saying anything and I’m at my wits -”

Dolores Mae materializes by their table before Braeden can pursue that dangerous and awkward line of questioning. Derek estimates she has a string of them lined up and ready to let rip. She tends to not hold back.

Thankfully, the prospect of food seems to have momentarily distracted her. Braeden orders the aforementioned pancakes and Derek reluctantly settles for a plate of toast and scrambled eggs.

Halfway through the plate of somewhat edible food, the trill of a phone alert penetrates the silence in their booth. Derek ignores it, and continues to shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth. It’s probably one of Braeden’s endless contacts supplying her with yet another useless lead. It’s basically the soundtrack of their trip.  
  
“Ouch!”

A sharp pain suddenly radiates from his leg. He glares at Braeden.

“What gives? Why did you kick me?”

“You got a message, silly,” she says with an eye roll. “That only happens once or twice a month. I’m curios.”

“No, that was your phone.”

Braeden sighs with the air of a frustrated librarian who’s come across someone misfiling a book. On purpose.

“No, it wasn’t. Mine is on silent. Besides, I don’t have that silly duck tone. Honestly, only tweens and idiots uses that.”

Derek feels an unexplained annoyance build, but quickly squashes it. Why sould he be irked about Braeden mocking his phone sounds? He’s a grown man, who makes his own decisions, dammit. Except he totally didn’t. Someone else had messed with his phone and changed all the little alerts to the most annoying ones, and Derek is too chicken-shit to admit he has no idea how to change it back. Or whatever.

Derek gropes around his pocket, fishing out the phone with a grimace suggesting it is aching to toxic waste. He senses more than sees Braeden roll her eyes. She knows better than to mutter insults under her breath. He swipes the screen and feels his heart quicken.

“What is it?” asks Braeden between messy bites of pancake. She has a bit of syrup on her chin. Derek silently hands her a napkin, deliberately ignoring her question.

“I mean, who texts you at this hour? The only one who usually sends you anything is Cora, but never at this time of the day. The other one is -.”

Braeden stops mid-sentence, dropping her fork onto the plate with a loud clang and a spray of syrup.

“Well,” she says, tone carefully blank. “That explains the caught-in-headlights look on your face. What is it this time? Kanima gone rouge? Scott bit another pup? Scott bit _him_?”

She sounds almost hopeful at the latter. Derek shoots her a dirty look.

“Not gonna read it?” she asks innocently. “Need some privacy?”

Derek scowls and shakes his head perhaps a tad too vigorously. Braeden is delusional. And sort of his girlfriend. Well, not really, but they still sometimes hook up. Do people actually still call it that? Hookups?

“Why would I need privacy? And I don’t even know what it is yet. It’s a snapphoto,” he adds for clarification. Braeden snorts.

“You’re secretly 90 years old, I swear. It’s called snapchat, silly. Or just snap if you’re hip and cool.”

The last is said with air quote marks. God, Derek hates that.

He presses the message and a somewhat blurry picture of what he recognizes as Stiles’ dirty Converses materialize on his screen. The caption says _“ **Waiting for the other shoe to drop.”** _ Derek's stomach does just that.

“Well, that makes no sense whatsoever,” comments Braeden, mouth full of food. She is leaning across the table, her hair almost touching the dam of syrup on her plate, shamelessly looking at the snap upside down.

“Unless it’s code for something. He’s odd.”

Derek tunes her out. He can see why she’d dismiss it. She doesn't know Stiles. The picture and message are random and inane at first glance, but… Derek senses something more to it. For one there is blood on his shoes, and he recognizes that linoleum floor. He’s crawled across it, fought on top of it enough to know Stiles is at the hospital.

“The sheriff,” he mumbles, feeling dread spread out from an epi center dangerously close to his heart. Trust Stiles to manage to mask hidden depths in seemingly silly messages. The first shoe was his mother, which meant the other shoe is his dad. It is shockingly obvious in a Stiles Stilinski sort of way.

“What was that?” asks Braeden absentmindedly. She is back to inhaling her breakfast. “You not gonna snap something back? Isn’t that what you do? Send lame jokes back and forth? I honestly don’t get it.”

“Not now.”

If Stiles is stuck waiting for potentially bad news, a stupid picture of his scrambled eggs won't help much. He should call. Or at least send a normal text. But not with Braeden sitting across him, curiosity turned up to 11.

Braeden shrugs. “Okay, suit yourself. I’ve gotten a text from this Marshall I worked a case with a few years back. He thinks he has a lead on our elusive coyote. Be ready to roll out in five, I’m going to go powder my nose.”

She saunters off, leaving Derek behind, paralyzed with worry. Stiles has called out for help in his own backwards indirect way. Something is going on back in Beacon Hills and if his suspicions are right, the Sheriff is in some sort of danger. Derek wants to help. He just isn't sure he's ready to go back. To face Beacon Hills again and everything that is still unresolved there. Not yet, at least.

Sometimes it isn't a question of being ready, though. Sometimes it is just a question of doing what is right. Derek tucks his phone back into his jacket and leaves a generous tip to Dolores Mae. He’ll call or text Stiles at their next stop.

Exiting the diner he is met with a chill wind that has nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure what this is, and where it'll end. It's a little different from what I usually write, so let's call it an experiment of sorts. I've got about 30k+ typed up so far, and still a ways to go. Hoping to do at least weekly updates. Let me know what you think :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, flashbacks are easy enough to spot, but if you need a visual clue, look for the _______ :D

_"Stiles, you need to get up. You gotta get up now."_

Stiles gasps awake in his usual fashion, which means a lot of flailing limbs that almost whacks Melissa across the cheek. She ducks expertly, kneeling beside his chair and laying a comforting arm on his shoulder. Stiles’ heart is racing. He can still hear the faint echos of his dad’s voice ringing in his ears while he's bracing himself for the worst. Will he ever hear that voice again?

He hardly dares look at Melissa, petrified of what he can read on her face. Her hand squeezes his arm lightly - comfortingly.

“He’s okay,” she says, not quite managing to contain her own relief. Stiles whips his head up, staring at her hopefully.  “Dr. Geyer is stitching him up right now,” she adds, a faint and tired smile tugging at her lips.

“I wanna see him,” Stiles croaks, making moves to get up. Melissa nods, yet pushes him firmly back in his seat.

“Okay, okay. The anesthesia needs to wear off. It's gonna be at least two hours.”

Stiles nods again, not really hearing anything beyond the word ‘okay’. It is such a glorious, life-affirming word.

“Okay, yeah, but everything's gonna be okay though, I mean, he's okay?”

He needs to make sure. That okay really means okay. And not just the sort of okay that Stiles usually claims to be. If so, he's not reassured. To him okay is a shield to hide his pain and fears. Right now he is praying no one is as messed up as him, and least of all any of the medical staff.

“Mmm. He's gonna be just fine,” Melissa reassures. Stiles breathes out a shaky “Oh, thank God.”

 

  
**

 

  
As it turns out, time moves just as slowly while waiting for his dad to wake up. Two measly hours should fly by like a breeze now that Stiles knows he isn’t about to become an orphan. And yet it trails by so agonizingly slow, snails could probably overtake it, and leave it in the dust if tested.

At one point the admission nurse comes back with more forms to fill out which holds his attention for a little while. Later, the brother and sister who’re still waiting for their dad to wake up, takes pity on him when his stomach starts rumbling really loudly and lends him a few bucks for the wending machine. A pack of Doritos and a somewhat questionable Snickers bar later and it’s still more than an hour left to wait. Awesome.

With the clock now well past 7 AM Stiles finally decides it’s safe to call Lydia. She’ll come over and keep him company for sure. Only her phone goes straight to voice mail. That is - _odd_. Lydia is a notorious screener of calls, but ever since she found that body floating in the pool when her banshee powers first manifested, she's never ignored a call from him. So yeah. Definitely odd.

He tries again a couple of minutes later with the same result. Stiles feels the stirrings of worry blossom in his chest, right next to the basketball-sized tumor of worry he already has accumulated for his dad. If this persists, he’ll be lucky to survive the day.

Melissa has promised to get in touch with Scott, so Stiles doesn’t bother to call or text him. Truthfully, he isn’t entirely sure he wants to talk to him either. He trusted Theo. He ignored each and every one of Stiles’ many warnings, and the result was horrifying. His dad might end up dead or severely injured, and it could all have been avoided. Not that Stiles is delusional enough to think that everything would’ve been roses and unicorns if Scott had headed his warnings. Far from it. Theo is a snake. He would find some way to slither in and do damage no matter what, that he is sure of. What stings the worst however, is the lack of trust. How Scott hadn't just ignored his advice, but also so readily believed whatever crazy tale Theo had spun.

Yeah, Stiles isn’t calling Scott. He can come to him, for a change.  He considers Liam and Mason - lovely dudes, no doubt, but not someone he wants by his side in this scenario. Stiles feels a begrudging responsibility for them, more like a big brother. He wants to be someone they can lean on, but isn’t comfortable leaning on them. Not yet, at any rate.

Stiles glances at his phone again. Great! Another five minutes have dragged by. In a fit of frustration, he goes back to snapchat, staring down on his list of contacts. Still no reply from Derek. Not that he’d expected anything. Not really. Not this early. Still, he can see that he's opened it, which means he's awake. 

Stiles huffs in annoyance. It is stupid to get upset over that. It's nothing. Peanuts really, compared to what is happening to his dad. It’s just -. Stupid. Stiles leans back in the chair, running a hand through his hair, feeling his fingers coming back slightly sticky. Yeah, he needs a shower, too. Awesome.

Another glance at the phone. Still nothing. He tries Lydia again with the same miserable result. Lydia can technically still be asleep with the sound off, he argues, mostly to reassure himself. Highly unlikely, but possible. Derek on the other hand has seen his snap, and yet chosen to not respond. Damn, he is losing it! It means nothing! How often hasn’t he received messages and not responded instantly? And yet, he’s come to expect more from Derek.

_I would’ve replied immediately._

_Yeah, but you’re a needy idiot and not a capable adult werewolf_ , he berates himself mentally. _You’re still not over the fact that he actually left town and hasn’t returned yet._

Yeah, the truth hurts. Even coming from himself. It is true. No use denying that. Stiles didn't really think Derek would be gone this long. He’d left before, with Cora, and yet been back only months later. Now however… Months have passed and still not even the slightest hint about when he’ll return, if at all. Stiles doesn’t dare ask. He is still slightly shocked Derek wants to keep in touch with him at all. He isn’t about to risk that by asking awkward questions. He slumps further down in the chair, thinking miserably back on the last time he'd actually seen him.

 

_______________

 

“Dude, what’s with the stack of boxes outside the door?”

Stiles has, in his usually fashion, let himself into Derek’s loft without bothering to either knock or call ahead. In this case, the door is unlocked and ajar, so getting in isn't exactly difficult. Not that a locked door would’ve stopped him anyway. Stiles might possibly have a key. Stiles might possibly have keys to everyone’s houses. You know, for reasons.

“Derek! Yo, wolfy. You home?”

Stiles steps through the door, jingling his keys and carrying with him a bag of curly fries. Of course, he knows perfectly well Derek loathes curly fries, but that's half the fun. It's both entertaining and endearing to watch him sniff, squint and then growl. Just to be extra annoying Stiles has picked up a bag of baby carrots. Because of Derek's bunny teeth. Yeah, he is hilarious.

The sight that greets him however, is not. Stiles drops his keys. The fries and carrots nearly following suit, but is saved last minute with an elaborate arm jerk that would be insanely cool if Stiles was into Popping and Locking. Which he's not. At least, not intentionally.  

What the hell?

He spins around, looking from the gaping hole in the wall, past the winding staircase, and towards the kitchen area. All he finds is a whole lot of nothing. Not that Derek can be accused of having snappy interior or a well of possessions, but lately it had glacially moved in the direction of almost cozy compared to when he first moved in. Now however, the only personal item Stiles can see is his old leather jacket slung on top of another mountain of boxes.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

He cringes as his voice echos back off the bare walls, making him painfully aware that he sounds more anguished than angry.

“I’m packing.”

Derek materializes from - Stiles has no idea. Thin air probably. Or he's dropped soundlessly from the second floor like a freaking acrobat. Despite the size of him, Derek is unnervingly light on his toes. A regular ninja wolf. Not that there is anything regular about that, and yeah, Stiles is mentally rambling again.

“Gah! Announce yourself, creep!” he cries, trying to mask his beating heart behind a thick layer of annoyance. By the arch of Derek’s eyebrow he is failing miserably. Also, he looks impossibly smug. Stiles has a vague idea Derek will be a menace on Halloween if given the opportunity.

“Why are you here?” asks Derek, dumping a stack of books into one of the boxes. Stiles tries not to ogle the bulge of his biceps. Needless to say he fails.

“To entertain your sorry ass. Also, I have more questions about the full wolf shift. I’ve been reading up on it online.” He reaches for his backpack, extracting a thick folder. “Most of this is probably bullshit, but I’m nothing if not thorough.” He grins widely, waggling his eyebrows. Derek snorts.

“I also have sustenance,” he adds as an afterthought. Derek huffs.

“I smelled the curly fries before I smelled you. That stuff is toxic.”

“Unlike me, who’s all kinds of adorable, I know.”

Derek shakes his head, yet gestures for Stiles to follow. As he traipses after Derek towards the kitchen, he takes stock of the rest of the loft. Either Derek is packing everything away to redecorate or fumigate - knowing all the stuff that had gone down here, that is probably advisable. Or he is moving.

When Stiles enters the room, Derek is rooting around in yet another box. He turns around, handing Stiles a plate with the pomposity befitting a coronation, and not the intake of fast food.

“You clean it up when you’re done,” he says gruffly, instantly destroying the royal vibe.

“Dude, I don’t need a plate to eat fries,” Stiles protests, but soon throws up his hands in surrender when Derek simply glares at him. “Okay, plate it is. You’re an anal prick, you know that right? Here, I even brought you some chow.”

He throws the bag of baby carrots at him. Derek grabs it midair, stares at it for a second, then simply tears it open and begin chewing away with relish. Stiles shakes his head.

“You’re supposed to eat rabbits, dude. Not eat like one. You’re the weirdest werewolf ever.”

“Really?” Derek crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. “The weirdest? Weirder than say Peter? Or Deucalion? Or Kali? You’re breaking my heart here.”

“You’ll live,” retorts Stiles. “Also, why are you packing?”

“Cause, I’m leaving, Stiles.”

That -. That is not at all what Stiles wants to hear. What he fears perhaps, but not really something he honestly thought would come to pass. Derek has left before and come back. Twice. So why is he leaving again? Besides the obvious of course. That Beacon Hills is a death trap, possibly an Hellmouth, and epicenter for everything crappy that has ever happened to Derek. Which is a lot. 

“Leaving?”

God, his voice sounds like a prepubescent kid, all squeaky and shrill.

Derek nods. Stiles notices he avoids looking at him as he does so. Which is probably a good thing. Then at least he won't notice the flush on Stiles' cheeks and the hurt in his eyes.

“Where? What? When? And like, leaving for an extended beach-side getaway heavy on the Cosmos, or the good-riddance-bye-forever variety?”

The silence that follows speaks volumes. At one point Stiles slides to the floor and ends up sagging against the fridge, the bag of fries long forgotten.

“I don’t know.”

Stiles is not a were-whatever of any kind, a mentalist, or expert on micro-expressions, and yet he knows with every fiber of his being that Derek is telling the truth. That he doesn't know. Logically, Stiles can't fault him for leaving. This town has treated Derek Hale beyond shitty. Hell, even Stiles has been an active part in making it less than pleasurable, for which he still feels bad. The idea of Derek not hanging around though… It is unfathomable. In that moment it's as if a slight continental drift takes place in Derek’s now depressingly empty kitchen. Stiles feels oddly disconnected, like he's been set adrift, and he has no idea why, or where the current will take him.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Stiles’ breath hitches.

“Were you going to say goodbye?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. Derek hears him, though.

“I’m not sure.”

A mental knife penetrates Stiles’ gut. Not that Stiles has ever been stabbed before, but he imagines it will feel excruciatingly painful. Like this. Derek’s three little words cuts deep, and twists around, sort of like the katana void!Stiles dug into Scott’s stomach that one time. Stiles still wakes at night, drenched in sweat with memories of that lingering on his mind.

“Does anyone know? Have you told Scott?”

Derek shakes his head. At least there is that. Stiles is silly for clinging to the fact that Derek hasn’t told anyone else either. Meaning, he isn't at the bottom of the list of people Derek will inform of such a thing.

“I only decided yesterday,” he admits. “I’m leaving with Braeden.”

“Oh.”

Stiles suddenly wants nothing but to flee the room. To get as far away from Derek as humanly possible. He can handle Derek leaving. He will handle it badly, for sure, but he’ll deal. He has before. Leaving with Braeden, though… Stiles doesn't even like Braeden. Scott is certain she and Derek are boning. Stiles scoffs and mentally digs his fingers into his ears, going lalalalalala whenever that comes up. Whatever. So, turns out Scott is probably right. For once.

“I’m tagging along for a while to help her look for the Desert Wolf. Then I’m probably gonna go back to New York. I still have the apartment Laura and I lived in.”

“Okay.”

It really isn't. Okay. Not by far.

“Stiles…”

Derek crouches down in front of him. “Hey, look at me,” he says softly. Stiles huffs pathetically to camouflage how thrown he is by all of this, but finally obliges.

“I’m not gonna disappear into the night without a trace. We’ll keep in touch, okay?”

“Sure,” says Stiles sarcastically. “When have you ever returned a text? Called unless your pants were on fire? Excuse me for being skeptical.”

Derek fishes out his phone, opening it with a swipe and brandishing the screen in Stiles’ face, almost bumping his nose in the process.

“Look, I even downloaded that snipsnap thing you’re always going on about. You just have to help me figure out how to add you and the others to my contacts.”

Stiles barks out a laugh despite it all, grabbing Derek’s phone.

“It’s Snapchat, doofus. Also, I’ll help you get set up, grandpa. In return you have to promise to always return my texts and messages. I’m also setting you you up with Instagram. Cora posts a lot on that, you should follow her.”

“Awesome. Thanks.”

Derek actually sounds as if he means it. He sits down beside Stiles, grabbing the folder with all the bullshit information on full werewolf shift Stiles had found online, and starts leafing through it.

“Where did you find this?” he asks sounding partially offended. “I most certainly do not under any circumstances have a knot!”

“Tested it have you?” retorts Stiles in his most mischievous voice. “To knot or not to knot, that is the question!”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever gets you through the night,” says Stiles, flipping to the settings on Derek’s phone, changing all the alerts to the sound of a quacking duck. Derek might be leaving, but Stiles is gonna do his level best to make sure he doesn't forget him anytime soon.

_______________

 

**~**

 

“What do you mean you don't know?”

Stiles is shouting and he doesn’t even care.

“Two hours ago, he was fine. Now it looks like somebody took a baseball bat to his neck.”

After hours of waiting for his dad to wake up after the surgery, things have now distinctly taken a turn for the worse. Much worse. Stiles is standing cross-armed looking from Melissa to Dr. Geyer and back again, trying and failing to understand what they are getting at.

“There could've been some minor internal...” begins Dr. Geyer. Stiles flails.

“Did you say, _"Minor internal?"_ Since when is anything internal _minor_?”

“Stiles...”

Melissa starts in a futile attempt to calm him down. He shrugs her off, barreling on.

“I need to know what's going on with him, okay? Dr. Geyer, somebody needs to tell me what's happening! Somebody needs to tell me what's happening to him!”

He is flat out yelling now, and he doesn’t care who hears him. All he cares about is his dad, and what is going on with him. Something that no one seems interested in telling him the slightest bit about.

“We don't know.”

Melissa sounds wrecked. For a moment Stiles has forgotten that she obviously cares about what happened to his dad, too. It is hard to concentrate on anything to be honest, when the only thing running through his mind is “I’m gonna lose my dad”. Which again means Stiles is gonna lose his mind. Unless he already has. Right now, it's hard to tell. 

Dr. Geyer is saying something, but a movement catches Stiles’ attention.

Scott.

Scott is here!

For a split second everything goes black. Next, Stiles is barreling through a door, charging at Scott like a man possessed. Red, hot anger courses through him as he grabs onto Scott's shirt and pushes him against the wall. They end up in a pile of limbs on the floor, Scott strangely passive while Stiles - well, Stiles is venting all of his frustrations, his pain, his anger, his worry onto his best friend. And Scott - he is letting him.

“Where were you? You trusted him! You believed him! Right, huh? So, where were you?”

“Hey, hey, hey...”

Someone is running towards them, trying to get their attention. Stiles ignores them.

“Where the hell were you?” he yells, voice cracking.

“Stop it!”

Dr. Geyer and Melissa pull them apart. Stiles fights back for a moment, but the brunt of the adrenaline has already worn off. The paralyzing fear is gaining ground again.

“Okay, all right, all right,” he pants, throwing murderous glares in Scott’s direction. He looks. Well, he looks like shit to be honest. There is blood on his shirt, too. Stiles briefly wonders if he’s done that, but no. There is no way he could’ve. Which means Scott has been in some sort of scuffle as well. He’s forgotten all about that. About the others. Yeah, he is a dick.

“Your dad's not the only one who got hurt,” mumbles Scott, head bowed.

Stiles snorts. How dare he try to compare the flesh wound on his chest, a wound that will heal in no time, to what his very human dad is suffering through. That is disrespectful and a low blow.

“Oh, you'll heal,” he snarls, not even a little bit sympathetic to whatever Scott has been dealing with. He is not prepared for what Scott says next.

“I'm not talking about me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**~**

 

 

 

“Get me some Twizzlers while you’re in there!” yells Braeden after him as Derek all but sprints towards the run-down gas station. It's highly doubtful they’ll have Twizzlers, and if they do, Derek certainly wouldn’t dream of consuming them. The state of the windows alone is enough to question if it’s even open for business.

He glances inside, or tries to anyway, as he strides past, but can’t see any signs of life. He can’t hear any heartbeats either for that matter. Part of him half expects to see the contours of dried up corpses slumped across the counter. He doesn’t stop to look too closely. Derek is on a mission after all, and can’t afford any detours. He coerced Braeden to pull over a whole hour before her scheduled stop by pleading he really needs the bathroom. It’s a boldfaced lie, of course. Derek’s bladder isn't even a quarter full, but he's reluctant to tell her his real reason of stopping. If he did, he’ll never hear the end of it.

Derek rounds the corner, safely out of Braeden’s field of vision, and spots the WC sign. The door is locked, but hardly a match for his werewolf strength. A few seconds later he’s inside, the door knob broken clean off. Despite the overpowering stink of stale piss, Derek sighs in relief. A window high on the wall provides a bare minimum of light. Not that he really needs much, nocturnal as he is.

For a long moment Derek simply allows himself to really look at the snap Stiles sent. He’s saved a copy of it, but hasn’t dared look at it while they’ve been driving. Braeden has been talking non-stop, first about the promised lead, then some long-winded brag-story about the Marshall they’re on their way to meet, and then - Derek honestly doesn’t know. In the back of his mind the word “beads” keep repeating, but he fails to see the relevance. Perhaps it was "leads"? Basically, he is drawing a blank.

With Braeden back at the SUV, he’s able to study it more closely. It definitely is from the hospital, that much he’s sure of. Something dark and anxious is twisting in Derek’s gut. The snap is dorky and random at first glance, but he’s spent a significant amount of time lately, both via text and on the phone, with Stiles, and has gotten to learn a few things about him. The first being that Stiles hides all his difficult emotions behind sarcasm and goofiness.

Derek swipes to his contacts, hitting dial on Stiles’ name. God, his heart is racing!

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he chants, clawing nervously at the flaking concrete wall. It goes straight to voice mail.

_“Hi, you’ve reached Stiles! I’m either ignoring you, off to fight monsters or forgotten to charge my phone. Possibly all of the above. It happens. Anywho, state your business and I'll get back to you.”_

“Stiles, it’s Derek. Call me back when you get this. Please.”

The bathroom comes off as chilly and constricting after that. Derek feels bereft. Cheated somehow. He’s spent well over an hour worrying, working himself up to this, only to be met with Stiles’ horrible recorded message. The hole in his stomach feels larger somehow. He interprets Stiles not answering the phone in the worst way possible. He finds himself trying to work out how long it will take him to drive back to Beacon Hills. Perhaps he should fly out instead? The fact that he’s even contemplating airplanes says it all. Derek hates to fly.

He shoots off a text as well before exiting back into the bright sunshine, repeating his plea for Stiles to call him. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket, then pulls out his sunglasses. The sun feels offensive somehow. 

Derek senses the vibrations of the Techno music long before he hears it. Braeden is bobbing her head, miming along to the lyrics complete with some complicated hand gestures. 

“Took you long enough,” she huffs out when Derek climbs inside. He leans forward and turns the music down about sixty thousand decibels.

“Sorry, I guess it was the scrambled eggs. They didn’t agree with me,” he mutters, flashing back with a shudder to the bacteria hell they’d dined at this morning. Braeden shrugs.

“Whatever. Where’s my Twizzler?”

“At the next stop,” Derek deadpans. Braeden pouts.

“Spoilsport. Well, I hope Stiles is okay, at any rate.”

Derek feels his cheeks blush crimson. He turns his head away from Braeden, pretending not to have heard, while desperately hoping the exact same thing. That Stiles is alright. That everyone is alright.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about Stiles having keys to everyone's houses was written in November 2016 during Nanowrimo, and it's kinda amusing to me how that was included in the season finale.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles’ heart is beating hard. So hard. So fast. Like a scared rabbit. Surely, Theo must hear it several blocks away, ringing out like a freaking church bell. He’ll have no trouble finding him, that's for sure. The text he sent was probably totally redundant. Oh well, as long as Theo shows up, it doesn’t much matter what got him here.

 _Let the bastard come_ , fumes Stiles darkly, feeling the rush of blood curling angrily in his veins. He needs to stay calm. Punching Theo again won’t do him much good. It'll probably feel good, though. Still, he needs to get him talking, not provoke him.

He checks his phone for the hundredth time since leaving the hospital. Nothing. No word from Melissa or Dr. Geyer about his dad.

No message from Derek.

No news is good news. Right? That’s how the saying goes, at least. Only in Stiles’ experience that’s a load of manure, sprinkled with a generous amount of gobshite. Stiles clenches and unclenches his hands in an unsteady rhythm. Somewhere upstairs Scott is hiding. Lurking in the shadows, trying his damnedest to hide his heartbeat. Perhaps it is a good thing then, that Stiles’ heart is so out of control? Maybe it will help disorient Theo in case Scott's hoodie isn't enough to throw off his scent. 

Stiles picks nervously at a loose thread on the hoodie's sleeve. It’s the one Scott was wearing when Theo masterfully manipulated a clearly distraught Liam into a near killing frenzy. He was wearing it when Theo tried his hand at murder in the first degree after Liam rushed off to be with Hayden.

God! This is all so incredibly fucked up! As if worrying about his dad and Lydia isn’t bad enough! Stiles shakes his head, letting a wave of guilt wash over him. Thinking back on the altercation in the hallway earlier today, he regrets losing his temper.  In his defense, he hadn’t known. Hadn’t known the library had been turned into a Werewolf Thunderdome while Stiles rushed to find his dad mangled and shredded. It is almost unthinkable, the notion that Theo went that far. That Scott almost died. And then Stiles went ahead and attacked him too.

Stiles is a dick. He knows that. Knows it was a dick move. Period. It's just, in that moment, he was so mad, so tired of Scott's naive promises of saving them all which - _newsflash_ \- never happens. It's a noble cause, no doubt. But, as always, it's just talk. Someone always loses. It’s impossible to be everywhere. To protect everyone. Stiles knows this firsthand. He was faced with that exact dilemma only yesterday, forced to choose between saving his dad and his best friend. He’d chosen his dad. To be honest, it hadn’t even been a difficult choice. Just instinct, and Stiles will do the same again if he gets a do-over. Scott has claws, fangs and healing abilities. That puts him at an advantage. And yet… Yeah, he’s selfish. A far cry from “let’s save everyone McCall”, that’s for sure. By comparison Stiles is pragmatic. But still selfish. There’s no escaping that.

Stiles’ self-flagellation is interrupted by the sound of gravel crushing under shoes. He lifts his eyes slowly, squinting to adjust to the almost blinding sunlight pouring in through the open door. A shadow moves into sight, blocking out most of the rays, casting Stiles half in shadow. His eyes fall to the line of mountain ash stretched across the threshold. Scott insists it won't work, but Stiles still wants to see for himself. Empirical evidence is always best.

Theo slowly comes into view, stepping closer to the door frame. He casts a smug glance at the line of mountain ash, letting out a soft snort. When his eyes fall on Stiles, one eyebrow arches a in what can only be interpreted as deliberate glibness. Or douchiness. Probably both. Theo pauses for a moment, then slowly and deliberately steps over it. Stiles watches with rapt attention. Not so much as a dust of ash moves, but stays perfectly in place, like it’s super-glued to the surface. In the back of his mind the memory of Tracey escaping the mountain ash circle at Deaton’s, replays in vivid Technicolor. That line had parted like Moses parts the sea, seamlessly and smoothly. Eerily similar to how Stiles had broken another such line, way back when the kanima was wreaking havoc in town, and Derek had screamed for him to break it.

Is there a connection? Stiles remembers feeling wary about the line as soon as Deaton put it up. The idea was to keep Tracey from escaping. At the same time, Stiles was just as worried about them being trapped inside the ash circle -  with her. He’d wished for a way to break it. He’d _wanted_ to break it. _Could_ he break it? _Had he?_

Still, this isn’t the time for such contemplations.

“You killed my best friend?”

Stiles croaks it out in a wheezy voice. He hopes it sounds suitably heartbroken and anguished to fool Theo. He’s probably monitoring his heart beat closely. Stiles isn't really lying, though. Theo might not have killed his best friend, but his meddling definitely served to alienate them more than they already were. Part of their friendship seems to be on life support at the moment, prognosis unclear.

It’s almost as if Theo can read minds.

“Let’s be honest, Stiles. Was he still really your best friend?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that without either lying outright or revealing his true feelings to Scott upstairs. That is a conversation he’d rather have without Theo gloating with a front seat view.

“Are you going to let my father die?”

Theo looks momentarily confused.

“If I wanted him to die, I wouldn’t have told you where to find him,” he says, that smug and crooked smile still in full display. Stiles wants to wipe it off with a cheese grater.

“Then why are they saying his body is shutting down? That some toxin’s poisoning him and they don’t know how to stop it.”

Theo shakes his head slightly, eyes squinting as if he’s trying to decipher whether Stiles is telling the truth or not.

“I’m not the bad guy, Stiles,” he says, voice firm. “I’m just a realist. I’m a survivor. If you knew the things that I know…”

He trails off suggestively. Stiles really doesn’t want to bite, but sees no other option.

“Yeah, but what do you know?”

“I know what’s coming. I know what the Dread Doctors created. And I know what Parrish is.”

Yeah. Okay. So, Theo knows shit. Damn it!

“Lydia figured it out. I saw it in her memories,” Theo gloats. Stiles clenches his fists again, feeling the fingernails bore into his skin, almost drawing blood.

“Right before you drove her out of her mind,” he spits back. Theo shrugs.

“Collateral damage.”

Stiles is fighting to keep himself from gauging Theo’s eyes out with his blunt nails. _Collateral damage?_ Lydia Martin is a lot of things, collateral damage is not among them.

A memory of Lydia's catatonic body flashes before his inner eyes. Stiles knew right away that Theo was to blame. Had immediately suspected what had caused it, and this is basically the confirmation he needs. If only Mrs. Martin would listen to reason. It seems a foreign concept. Remembering their earlier confrontation, Stiles isn’t particularly optimistic she'll come around anytime soon.

 

______

 

“No! No, you don't! You're not coming in here! Get out!”

Well, thinks Stiles darkly, there is little doubt where Lydia gets her temperament. Mrs. Martin is practically spitting fire from the moment she spots Stiles trying to inch into the hospital room, all nerves and fear.

“Just wait, wait. I think I know who did this, okay. I just need to look at the back of her neck.”

Mrs. Martin lets out a guttural sound. She stands hovering over Lydia’s bed like an angry Hungarian Horntail.

“I know who did this,” she snarls. “ _You_! All of you! Get out!”

Stiles visibly recoils as the accusation hits him.  It stings, mostly because it is true. Sort of. They dragged Lydia into their supernatural business. On the flip side, Lydia is supernatural no matter what. That part of her would’ve come to the surface sooner or later. Yet, if it had been later, this could've been avoided… Logically, Stiles can't really fault her mother. He can resent her, disagree and argue. But he understands the instinct to protect. 

“Come on, please. You just gotta listen to me. You just gotta check the back...”

“Just get out!”

“Just check the back of her neck.”

It is futile. Mrs. Martin isn't in a listening mood. The last shouted “ _Out_!” carries with it an almost metaphysical wave, all but pushing Stiles into the corridor. The door shuts with a bang. Stiles is left feeling helpless, the rejection cuts like a knife to the gut.

 

______

 

Stiles bites his tongue, and with great difficulty he manages not to comment, or attack Theo. The effort physically hurts. The chimera seems indifferent to his sufferings and blathers on.

“But if she’s right about Parrish, then things around here are gonna get a lot worse.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles wheezes.

“You should. Because if your dad survives he’s not gonna be Sheriff of anything much longer.”

“What’s happening to him? Hey, tell me!!”

Stiles is at the end of his tether, his backup of patience long since drained dry. Adrenaline and anger takes over and he lunges for Theo, hoping to at least get in one good shot.

They collide in a tumble of limbs, but it’s not a fair fight. Stiles' head collides painfully with a hard surface. Soon everything goes dark.

 

 

***

 

  
_“Stiles, you need to get up.”_

The voice seems far away. Muffled. As if the one speaking is wrapped in layers of cotton. Gradually, his field of vision clears. Trees. Grass. A gray sky. A coffin.

His mom’s coffin.

A warm hand clasps down on his shoulder. Safe. Sad.

“You gotta get up now,” his dad says, leaning down, eyes flooded with pent up emotions.

 

_“Stiles! Stiles!”_

 

The vision fades again. When Stiles opens his eyes, he’s sprawled painfully on the stairs at Scott’s house, his head pounding like he’s just used it as a hammer. Or inhaled a bottle of Jack. Or both.

“Stiles, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Scott sounds honestly concerned. Stiles sits up gingerly, massaging his head. Yep, there’s swelling. Awesome. He shrugs off Scott’s offered hand and gets to his feet.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles. It’s his go to answer for everything. I'm fine. I'm okay.It's not true of course. He hasn't truly been okay since sophomore year. He’s most definitely not okay now. Stiles' head is pounding and there are black spots dancing in from of his eyes. But his dad's not okay either, and that takes priority.

“You blacked out.”

“I’m okay. Did you get anything from him?”

Scott shakes his head. Stiles’ heart sinks.

“Nothing. He was calm the entire time.”

“What about his heart?”

Scott pauses for a moment, putting on his pensive face, the one that includes a frown and a head tilt.

“I heard it jump once, and only for a second. That doesn’t mean he was lying. Not really. The rest of the time it was steady.”

“When did it jump? What was I talking about?”

Stiles is desperate and ready to grasp at any straw they can turn up.

“It was when you said that your dad was poisoned.”

Something warm, achingly resembling hope blooms in the pit of Stiles’ stomach.

“That could be something. A jump could mean surprise, right?”

Scott nods a bit too enthusiastically.

“Yeah, yeah. I think so.”

“So, why would he be surprised that my dad’s still dying?”

Scott’s eyes bulge, making him look like a huge Labrador.

“Oh wait! He didn’t says that he was the one who attached your dad, did he?”

Stiles pauses, his mind knitting threads into connections.

“No.”

“Well,” says Scott breathlessly. “Then this means it was probably someone else.”

Stiles shouldn’t be surprised and yet he still is.

“Another chimera.”

  
As they leave the house heading for the car, he feels a slight buzz in his pocket signaling an incoming text. It’s a testament to Stiles’ state of worry and anger that he doesn’t bother checking it. If it is something about his dad, Melissa will be calling, nor texting. Ergo, it can't possibly be all that important.

Besides, he’s got a chimera to find! A chimera he’ll much rather find on his own to be honest, without Scott in tow. He slips inside the car and slams the door closed, locking the doors. For all his werewolf senses and instincts Scott can be extremely slow on the uptake sometimes. For instance, it doesn’t seem to cross his mind that Stiles is still livid about everything with Theo and Donovan.

“Stiles?”

Scott looks like a floppy-haired, uneven-jawed deer caught in headlights.

“Yeah, I can do the rest myself.”

He totally can. Stiles believes that. Furthermore, he _wants_ to do it on his own. Do things on his terms for a change. Naturally, Scott isn’t having any of that. Stiles only half listens as he rambles on about how Stiles needs him and how they've survived adversaries like Deucalion and whatnot. Sure, they have managed to come out relatively unscathed from a few rather dodgy situations, he’s right about that. Stiles is less sure how much of those outcomes are directly contributed to Scott, though.

He sighs, choosing to ignore Scott’s earnest eyes. That is probably the worst part. That he honestly believes all the things he says. Thinks he can save everyone. That no one should kill. That everything can be forgotten and second chances doled out as generously as candy on Halloween.

It’s not that simple. Nothing ever is.

On the flip side, Stiles doesn’t want to lose his friendship with Scott. He simply wants it back on an even footing. And most of all he wants an apology. He needs to hear Scott admit that he was stupid to believe Theo over Stiles. That he shouldn’t be as categorical about the does and don’t of his pack. Yet, no apology leaves his lips. Not as much as a slight admission of guilt. Just pathetic attempts to pander to Stiles’ sense of right and wrong.

The worst part is it kind of works.

Stiles unlocks the door, watching in resignation as Scott launches himself inside, grinning widely. Like he'd finally managed to bring the lost sheep back into the fold. Talked sense into him again. Stiles doesn’t return the smile.

“So, he states tersely. “Where do we begin?”

 

**~**

 

 

Derek is worried.

Very worried. Borderline anxious, even.

He’s taken to checking his phone every other minute, something that is both pathetic and highly uncharacteristic of him. At one point he even throws a small fit when he realizes his battery is at a measly 7 % and dying fast. Naturally this occurs while they're cruising down the most deserted highway known to man with no sign of civilization for miles. Normally, he’ll just shrug and let it go. Being without his phone for hours, days even, has never been anything to panic about. Normally, he’s more likely to roll his eyes rather than offer anyone sympathy for such a plight.

 _Normally_.

Today however, normalcy left the building the second Stiles sent that snap. Derek still curses his own cowardice for not responding instantly. That it took hours before he plucked up the courage to reply, hidden away in a dingy restroom that probably broke every health code known to man. It sounds ludicrous now. Why hide away to send messages to Stiles? It's absurd!

Then again, absurd pretty much sums up the entirety of his and Stiles’ friendship. They’ve never really formally acknowledged that they are now in fact friends. Since Scott still does his best to avoid Derek and only seeks him out when he needs information or a favor, dealing with Stiles always feels kind of forbidden. Derek suspects Stiles doesn’t share the extent of their interactions with Scott either, and Derek never divulges any details to anyone. It isn’t a secret really. It’s just a truth never talked about.

Whatever.

Derek huffs angrily, the agitation mostly directed at himself and his odd hangups. He can practically hear Laura guffawing in the back of his mind. She was always quick to mock his social inadequacies. In many ways they were polar opposites. Him broody and introvert, her sociable and spunky. They’d never really gotten along as kids. Laura had been too brash and loud, more interested in play-fighting and climbing trees. Derek loved to read and play board games. Where Derek had patience, Laura had guts and bravery.

Laura used to call him lazy. He really wasn’t. Derek likes to run, but despises close combat. He is good at it, though. Better than Laura even. Yet, he’s never gotten any real pleasure out of it. Laura didn’t get that, and would pester him relentlessly. Picking, poking and prodding. Eventually, he’d snap and give chase. He still remembers her peals of laughter echoing throughout the preserve, him hot on her heels. She always came back positively beaming and brimming with energy. Derek would come home dragging his feet, feeling as if he’d betrayed himself somehow.

  
________

  
“Kids, dear lord! You’re both covered in dirt! Please, take off your shoes and - well, basically take off everything! I don’t want a trail of mud all over the house.”

Derek cringes and sighs, casting Laura murderous looks as he chips off his mud-caked shoes. He'd finally caught up with her by the edge of the mostly dried-out riverbed. Adrenaline and anger overtaking him, he’d jumped almost clean across the divide, getting a claw caught in her shirt. They’d tumbled, fought and clawed for a long time before Derek finally gained the upper hand and Laura yielded. Her eyes had been filled with unadulterated joy. Derek’s body had been strumming with barely contained rage. Rage so electric and overpowering he had trouble keeping it under control.

There is a good reason why he seldom gives into his more instinctual wolfy urges. His control is shaky. One day he might not be able to reign it in. He fears the outcome.

“Derek’s shy about his body,” crows Laura, already half-undressed and without any sign of bashfulness. Derek blushes.

“Am not,” he mutters, but even he can hear how false it rings. Laura guffaws.

“Derek nearly didn’t catch me today, mom. He’s getting fat and slow.”

“Laura! That’s not true at all,” chides their mom. She smiles briefly in his direction.

“It is so. I heard Mallory in senior year say Derek had gotten big.”

Talia laughs softly and pats Laura on her head, ruffling her hair in the process.

“I don’t think she meant big as in fat.”

Laura shrugs. “Well, he’s a lazy ass no matter. It took me almost half an hour to get his nose out of that book. He’s not much fun at all. Even Cora is more of a werewolf than him, and she’s just a baby.”

“We’re all different, and there’s nothing wrong with that. The world would be scary place if everyone was like you.”

Talia gestures at the pile of clothes pooled around Laura. “Take those to the laundry room and get in the shower.”

“I think a world with only mes would be awesome!” calls Laura on her way out of the room. Derek notices his mom shaking her head out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t look at her, though, hoping she’ll let him be and not try to talk to him again. That is always so awkward and he never knows what to say.

“You do know there isn’t a set manual on how to be a werewolf, right?”

Damn! Derek freezes midway through folding his t-shirt.

“Whatever,” he mutters. She keeps saying that, but everyone in his family is more or less different versions of Laura. Some more mature and calm than others, but still essentially outgoing and eager to shift and let their wolfside out to play. Derek's the odd person out, the one piece that doesn't quite fit. 

“I wish you’d open up to me about what’s bothering you, Derek.”

Derek shrugs and continue to fold his dirty laundry with great precision.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles. “I just -”

He trails off.

“Just what?”

“It’s stupid, forget it.”

There is a sound of a chair being dragged across the room. Talia sits down in one of the kitchen chairs and gestures for Derek to do the same. Reluctantly he obliges.

“Your feelings are not stupid. There’s nothing wrong with reacting to things differently than others. You don’t have to feel like you need to follow the crowd, to choose what people expect you to choose, or feel the same way as people around you. I want you to be you, and be happy about it.”

Derek has no idea how to respond to that. He understands it. He agrees in theory. Yet, it is so difficult to carry it out. Being odd isn't easy. It is actually better at school. He's good at sports so everyone accepts him even if he isn't really funny or outgoing. Here at home however, he stands out like a sore thumb.

“You don’t like the rough and tumble, is that right?”

Derek’s cheeks flushes. After a few excruciatingly long moments he finally nods his head.

“That’s perfectly okay,” says Talia patiently. “I think it’s important to acquire a certain level of skill for fighting, but it’s not required for you to love it. In the same manner that I hate to bake, yet I still do it when occasions call for it. It’s a useful skill to have, but I’ll never enjoy it.”

“But your cakes are the best,” says Derek in confusion.

“Thank you, love. I still despise making them. I love that you like them, though. That makes it worth it, enduring the process.”

He contemplates this for a moment, then says quietly, “I don’t like to fight. I think I’m pretty good at it, though. I’ll do it when occasions call for it, but I’ll never enjoy it.”

Talia laughes. “I’m glad. I’ll have a talk with Laura. I know she can be a bit much. She could use a sparring partner, but we’ll think of someone else for her. I think you should make sure you keep your skills honed, so perhaps just a little bit every full moon? Does that sound reasonable?”

Derek nods, though on the inside he feels cold to the bone. Full moons are positively the worst time ever for fight training. The previous full moon, he’d ditched school and hid in the Preserve fearing that if he went to basketball practice he’d end up mauling more than the ball. He has no idea how to express that to his mother. She is so in control and calm all the time. She’ll be disappointed and embarrassed for sure. Derek certainly is.

“Run along, take a shower before I have to hose you down outside.”

Derek doesn't need to be asked twice and leaves promptly heading for the downstairs shower, knowing Laura will occupy the one upstairs for at least another half hour.

It isn't until he locked the door behind him, he finally lets out a breath of relief. He unclenches his fist, staring down on the fingers on his left hand, the claws still out. His body is strumming with leftover currents of near uncontrollable anger. Derek has no idea how to turn it off. 

Derek’s biggest secret isn't that he's introverted or bookish. He might look like a calm ocean, no waves hitting the shores. Underneath the surface however lurks a strong and unpredictable undercurrent. It is always there, bubbling close to the boiling point. With difficulty and lots of concentration Derek keeps it at bay. It is better to be quiet and keep to himself. Usually it works. Until people like Laura prods and provokes him into action.

Derek struggles with control. As soon as he starts to shift, the balance shifts as well. His wolf instincts become dominant. They take over, pushing common sense aside. Every moment is a struggle not to give totally into the urges fighting to take charge. He’d nearly ripped Laura’s throat out earlier today. She’d laughed when a claw had nicked her neck. She wouldn’t be laughing if she knew how close she’d come to being seriously mauled.

_I need to stay away from people._

It is the best way to deal. He can't talk to mom about it. She’ll be appalled and disappointed. Might even end up sending him away somewhere to train. Perhaps he can talk to Peter about it? Peter isn't so bad, and he’ll probably never go blabbering to anyone. Yeah, Peter is definitely an option. Everyone else though, he needs to avoid.

Just such a pity that girl with the cello is so damned cute…

________

  
Derek pushes all thoughts of Laura and teenage drama out of his head. He takes a big gulp of his cup of coffee and almost recoils. It’s not only cold, but also on the verge of poison. Some well-meaning US Marshal had given it to him, accompanied by a dazzling smile and a wave of pheromones that pretty much screamed flirtation. Braeden had rolled her eyes, yet taken absolutely no pity on him.

Now, Derek sits left behind and alone in the reception area. Braeden strutted off with a former colleague, who would, hopefully, have some workable intel on the Desert Wolf. At this point Derek privately wonders what they are chasing - a myth or an actual person.

He checks his phone again. Still nothing. He contemplates calling. Actually spends a full five minutes with his finger hovering above Stiles’ name in his contact list. In the end, he exits the contacts with a huff and instead pulls up Instagram to stalk Cora.

Cora. She’s still mostly a mystery to him. He hardly knew her as a kid. She’d been so much younger than him. Just a nuisance. Someone who wanted to tag along, wanted attention, but never offered anything worthwhile in return. Truthfully, Derek associates Cora with work and chores. _“Watch Cora, please.”_ That phrase was repeated about a zillion times each day. That was actually one of the few things Derek would willingly fight Laura for, getting out of Cora-watching duty.

He felt horrible about that after the fire. When he still thought Cora was dead. Stumbling across his baby sister not so much a baby anymore, and near feral in an abandoned bank vault, had been a shock to the system. It also forced a role back onto Derek that he’d never been good at. The role of brother.

Cora’s latest upload is a closeup of a butterfly perched on the edge of what looked like a pint of beer. Derek frowns. Cora isn’t old enough for beer. Not that beer does anything for her in terms of getting drunk, it is more the principal of the thing.

He comments with a confused emoji, then sends her a private message.

**_Step away from the beer, young lady!_ **

Derek feels ridiculously proud of it. It is about as playful as he can be. It conveys his message without being condescending and stern. Much.

Cora’s reply comes almost instantly.

 ** _Beer’s legal at 18 here, old man. Turned 18 last week, FYI. Your gift probably got lost in the mail_ ** :)

Holy-!

Derek freezes. How can he have forgotten? He quickly types out an apology, mentally trying to work out what to get her to make up for this blunder. He’s awarded with a long string of laughing emojis.

_**Gotcha! I’m not 18 until next month. I’ll forgive you for not remembering when my birthday is if you get me an awesome gift.** _

That little weasel!

Derek sends an angry-faced emoji. Cora answers with a link. It takes Derek to an electronic store and a clearly overpriced MacBook. Then again, all MacBooks are.

 _ **Dream on, girly**_ , he replies before ordering it. Just as he completes the transaction, his phone buzzed again.

**_There’s a school break coming up, perhaps I could come see you?_ **

Derek’s heart swells. His fingers literally shakes as he types out a quick affirmative. That’s the first time Cora has taken initiative to meet up. Since she showed back up in Beacon Hills, she’s made it pretty clear that she’s less than impressed with what she found. Derek tries his level best to rearrange her warped image of him, but doesn't feel as if he's making much headway. Perhaps this is the first sign that he’s getting somewhere?

He’s still hesitant about the decision to leave her with the pack in South America, but with all the shit that goes down back home, it really is for the best. Cora has suffered enough.

We all have, he thinks bitterly. Stiles included.

Fifteen restless minutes later and still no reply from Stiles. Derek caves and sends another message, which is highly unlike him and bound to raise both of Stiles’ eyebrows when he realizes. Derek can practically see the reaction, and it tugs a small smile out of him. It soon evaporates when no reply comes.

Braeden returns in the nick of time to save Derek from the coffee-delivering marshal hitting on him again. She guffaws all the way back to the car, offering no sympathy for his plight.

After a quick pit-stop where Derek buys a power bank, they are back on the road. He glares at his phone with the visage of a disappointed parent as it continues to give him the silent treatment. Braeden laughs for three straight miles. Derek contemplates murder.

Still there’s no reply from Stiles.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I'm not wild about this chapter. I've tweaked and edited it, cut some and added other parts, and I still don't feel like it flows right. But if I don't post now, I'll just be stuck here for a really long time. It's not rocket science, so fuck it. Right? :D


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles is exhausted. Feels wrung out like an old, filthy rag, but still too wired to actually sleep. His body is sleep-deprived and on the verge of a breakdown. His mind is still reeling, working over everything, details, guilt, memories, actions he’ll probably regret later. Words he already do.

He’s always been like this. Overactive mind, the doctors said. ADHD was the clinical term branded on his records since before school. It’s something to blame when shit goes wrong. When stuff gets broken, or he’s caught at age ten, trying to sneak into his dad’s office, Scott in tow. It’s also something that helps when shit goes wrong. When they need someone to break into the admission’s office, someone to stay awake for three days straight pouring over research. It’s a blessing and a curse. The only trouble is, Stiles can’t shut it off. Not when he wants to, and most definitely not when he needs to.

“You need anything?”

Melissa pokes her head inside, casting a worried glance at the monitors emitting soft beeps. Her eyes relax, finding nothing wrong. Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I’m okay,” he says automatically. It’s a lie. Melissa knows it too, by the look of things, but instead of admonishing him or shooing him home, she simply smiles that soft and slightly sad smile of hers, nods and closes the door quietly behind her.

They’d done it. Against all odds, they’d figured out what was causing his dad’s body to shut down. Had realized Theo wasn’t the one who hurt him. That another chimera was to blame. Or not to blame really. That still falls on Theo, but that’ just semantics. Stiles curses softly. The chimera is dead now. They all keep dying, and he’s sick of it. He didn’t want that to happen. Hadn’t really wanted for him to be hurt even, despite pushing him against a wall and losing his temper. It was just worry fueling him, nothing else.

The Dread Doctors had killed him. Still, Stiles can’t help wondering what Scott thinks. He saw Stiles push him against the wall, saw him yell and scream. Did it make him doubt Stiles even more with regards to Donovan? These are the thoughts that keep spinning, round and round inside his head, making him antsy and restless.

Stiles clasps his dad’s hand, squeezing it. His heartbeat is steady, comforting. And yet he can’t find any peace. Keeps squirming in his seat. Pacing the room. Fuzzing with his dad’s pillows. Fetching water he can’t drink yet. When he’s done all that, Stiles does it again. And again. And again.

It’s almost 1 AM, when his phone rings. Stiles startles, knocks over the glass of water he’s refilled seventeen times already, sending it crashing to the floor. For a split second he stares at the monitors in paralyzed fear, convinced his dad is dying before his eyes. But there’s no flat lines, no wailing alarms, just soft beeps and the whir of the oxygen pouring into his mask, regular as clockwork.

His phone rings again, buzzing softly on the bedside table, the vibrations carrying it slowly closer to the edge, like a skittish beetle. Stiles snatches it up just as it’s about to topple over, hitting accept without looking at the screen. His heartbeat is still skyrocketing, the pounding loud in his ears.

“Hello,” he croaks out, voice breaking like a pubescent kid.

“Stiles? Oh, thank god.”

The voice on the other end is like a velvet blanket, engulfing him in a sense of safety Stiles hasn’t felt in a long time. His feet give way and he slides to the floor, back against the wall. He lets out a small whimper.

“You - you okay?” Derek’s voice is suddenly low. Hesitant. Apprehensive. “Your dad. Is he - ? What happened?”

It takes a few seconds for Stiles to realize he’s crying. Silent tears, not the hiccuping, gut-wrenching, snot-producing kind. Thankfully. He doesn’t want Derek to know what a huge sissy he is. He’s 18 for crying out loud, he’s supposed to be stronger than this.

“You talk to Scott?” he croaks out.

“Scott? No.”

Derek sounds perplexed. Like the notion is preposterous.

“How did you know about my dad, then?” he asks, wiping his cheeks angrily. His hands come away wet. Salty. He wipes them on his jeans. They’re dirty. He needs a change of clothes. A shower. A new life.

“The snap,” says Derek softly. “' _Waiting for the other shoe to drop'_. I noticed it was from the hospital. I just assumed - the first shoe was your mom. So- “

He trails off. Stiles feels warm all over.

“You got all that from a crap photo of a bloody shoe?”

“Was I wrong?”

Stiles shakes his head, then, realizing Derek can’t see him, whispers “no.”

Derek doesn’t say anything after that. Simply waits.

“He’s okay. Or he will be.”

It feels good to say it out loud. To share it with someone. Somehow that makes it seem more real. The sigh of relief coming through the phone is another surprising development. It sounds heartfelt. Like Derek actually cares. Worries.

“I tried to call you earlier. Sent you texts.”

“I know.”

“You wanna talk about it? Tell me what happened?”

Stiles lets out a snort.

“No. Not really.”

“I figured.”

“You did, huh? Since when do you know me well enough to assume such things?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come off so harshly, but as soon as he’s said the words, Stiles knows he can’t take them back. Derek doesn’t say anything for a while. Stiles bites his lip, wondering if he should just hang up.

He doesn’t. Neither does Derek.

“I get it.”

Derek’s words are muffled, but still oddly clear. Or perhaps Stiles is just incredibly alert, concentrating hard, worried he’s scared him off.

“Get what?”

“Wanting to protect him at all cost. The fear of losing him. Guilt. Responsibility. You reek of it, Stiles.”

“Funny. Didn’t know wolves could pick up chemo signals through the phone. You really are a special cookie, Derek.”

There it is. The famous Stilinski sarcasm. His best defense. The one thing most likely to scare away anyone attempting to get close to him. The method has been perfected over years and works like a charm every time. Or, most of the time. Often enough.

“It’s not your fault.”

Derek doesn’t specify, but he doesn’t need to. Stiles laughs mirthlessly, banging his head against the wall. The pain is welcome. Deserved.

“You sure about that?” he asks flippantly. “You’re not here, how can you possibly know anything?”

“I don’t,” says Derek honestly. “I know you, though. Despite what you might think. And somehow, incredibly, and despite what you try to make people think, you’re always feeling guilty.”

“But it’s my fault.”

If Derek didn’t have his werewolf hearing he might not have picked up these words whispered into the dimly lit room, where everything is cast in eerie shadows of green coming from the lights on the machines monitoring the sheriff’s vitals. Derek hears them though, clear as day. Stiles knows this, regrets them, but it’s out there now, and he can’t escape it. He’s not even sure he wants to. Perhaps it’s time to stop running, and just own it. Face his fear. His demons.

“No, it’s not,” says Derek. He sounds resigned, but not in an angry way, like Stiles is used to. For some reason it makes his cheeks heat.

“Stop saying that.”

“No.”

“It’s my fault.”

“What is? What exactly is your fault?”

_“Everything!”_

He can’t hide it now. It’s like his own admission chipped away the last little piece of brick keeping the dam from collapsing.

“It it weren’t for me, none of this would’ve happened!”

He shoves his fist into his mouth, trying to muffle some of the anguished sounds spilling out of him.

“I dragged Scott into the woods the night he was bitten. If I’d just kept my curious ass home, like I was supposed to, Scott would be fine. Jackson wouldn’t have learned about werewolves, Lydia wouldn’t be targeted and bitten, my dad - “ He chokes on his words, needing a moment to draw a few deep breaths. “My dad would still be clueless, never in harms way. Never a target of Theo’s nefarious plots. It’s - Derek, don’t you see? I’m to blame for everything!”

“No.”

Stiles snorts, snot and tears mixing, rolling his eyes, wanting to punch something. Wanting to punch Derek.

“You need to work on your vocabulary,” he drawls, wanting to escape this conversation. “You keep saying no. Keep that up and soon it won’t mean anything. Or it’ll mean everything. It’ll be your _‘Hodor’_.”

“We’re not Game of Thrones characters, Stiles.”

Somehow he can hear Derek smiling. How is that even possible?

“Pity.” Stiles sniffles. “You’d make a great knight, I reckon. I on the other hand would die at the hand of white walkers in the prologue to episode one.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re too clever for that.”

“Clever, huh?” Stiles smiles despite it all. “Does that make me Tyrion or Varys? On second thought, don’t answer that. There is no good answer, so just - let’s drop it.”

“I was gonna say Arya, but okay.”

Stiles doesn’t have an answer for that.

“My answer is still the same,” continues Derek. “You can’t deflect me that easily. Stiles, it’s not your fault. One single action can’t change everything.I don’t buy that.”

“No?” Stiles grits his teeth, feeling annoyance build. “Says the guy who’s been beating himself for what happened to your family. And yes, I know about Kate,” he adds venomously. He’s never talked about that. Never asked. Never told anyone. He realizes he’s only bringing it up now because he’s feeling trapped, called out, raw. It’s a cheap shot. Then again, he’s not exactly an angel, now is he.

Derek simply says “I know you do,” and effectively destroys what little ammunition Stiles has.

“Why do you think I know so much about this? I know guilt, Stiles. That’s why I recognize it so easily. I’ve also spent years wallowing in it, but in the end I learned something kind of important, namely that shit happens. Sometimes we control it, but mostly we don’t. Consequences are always in the future, and most of the time impossible to predict. So, we deal. And then we move on.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Dealing? Moving on?”

It’s quiet for a while on the other end. Stiles hears Derek breathing. Knows he’s still there.

“I’m trying,” is all he says after a while. “I’ve still got a way to go.”

“Figuratively or literally?”

Derek snorts, like the question amuses him.

“Honestly? I dunno. I’ll let you know when I find out. In the mean time, stop blaming yourself for every little thing that goes wrong around you. If you hadn’t walked into the woods that night, Laura still would’ve died. I’d still come to town. Kate would too. Peter would still go on a murdering rampage and who knows, Scott might have been bitten regardless. Just another time, another place. The point is we don’t know. We’ll never know. And whatever happened to your dad, isn’t your fault either. When he wakes up, I’m sure he’ll tell you the exact same thing.”

Stiles chews on his lower lip, knows that Derek is right. But this whole supernatural crap is slowly tearing his dad apart. It’s chipping away at his sense of right and wrong, the very laws he’s promised to uphold, and Stiles can’t help feeling he’s corrupting him somehow.

“You’re right, he will,” he admits. “Doesn’t matter, though. He might have survived this, but he doesn’t know what I’ve done. I - It’s gonna kill him, Derek. He’s survived this, but my actions - they, they’re gonna be the end of him!”

It all spills out. About Donovan. About Scott believing Theo, how Stiles has lied about everything, so incredibly scared of losing the people that matters to him. Afraid they’ll look at him and see a killer. Disown him. Turn their backs. View him as the monster he secretly thinks he is. He’s never been a good person. Not really. Not like Scott. Half the world can burn for all Stiles cares, as long as he gets to keep the people he loves. That’s not exactly the mentality of a hero, now is it?

The sad part is, despite his desperate attempts, he’s been losing them for a while now anyway. Stiles is no fool. He’s noticed how they look at him differently after the whole nogitsune possession. Can virtually hear the cog wheels churning in their heads, wondering if it really was all because of the fly, or if that was just an excuse.

In all honesty, Stiles doesn’t even know the answer to that. Hasn’t dared to exam it too closely, afraid of what he might find, buried deep inside.

“It’ll kill him, Derek,” he repeats when it’s all tumbled out. When he’s dry, no words left, all worries laid bare before the last person he’d ever thought he’d place his trust in like this. Maybe it’s because Derek’s not here. Probably never will be again. Maybe that makes it easier, somehow. Safer. Stiles can’t hurt Derek anymore. He got away.

“No, it won’t.”

Derek sounds so sure. Stiles can’t remember the last time anyone spoke so plainly in his favor. It might have been his mom.

“How can you know?” he whispers, wiping away more tears. The sleeve of his shirt is soaked, his cheeks and hands salty.

“Because he loves you. Because he’s your dad. And because he’s a man of the law. He knows what self-defense is, Stiles. You know what self-defense is. You know everything. Hell, you probably know it better than him by now. The trouble is -.”

Derek laughs softly. The sound is foreign. Warm. Comforting.

“The trouble is, you never really believed the rules applies to you, one way or the other. You break them without a second thought for all the right reasons, and punishes yourself more harshly than necessary for all the wrong reasons. You gotta stop that.”

“How?”

It sounds so logical when Derek tells it. Stiles wants to believe him. Needs too.

“Trust your father, Stiles. Be honest. I swear, it’ll be okay.”

For a few minutes the only sound in the room are the soft beeps emitting from the machines and Stiles’ soft sniffles. Somehow it’s comforting.

“I’m tired,” Stiles says after a long while. Yawns for good measure.

“Get some sleep,” murmurs Derek. His voice is like a lullaby, tugging at Stiles’ eyelids. He gingerly gets to his feet, stumbling across the room and collapses in the chair by the bed.

“Do me a favor,” Stiles slurs as he grabs his dad’s hand, resting his head next to it.

“Anything.”

“Don’t hang up until I’ve fallen asleep.”

“Okay.”

Stiles drifts off to a reassuring symphony of soft beeps and rhythmic breathing.

 

 

**~**

 

 

Derek is rudely awoken by a slap against the back of his head. He whirls around bleary-eyed and with a growl, only to be doused with a generous helping of water. When he wipes his face, he sees Braeden looking impossibly smug, an empty glass in one hand, her phone in the other.

“What was that for?” he hisses, eyes flashing blue for good measure. Braeden looks bored and unimpressed.

“You weren’t answering your phone. We agreed to meet for breakfast at half past six. You didn’t show, I called, called again, banged on the door, and when that didn’t wake you I claimed to be your wife and got a spare key.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles groping around for his phone. He finds it half hidden behind the pillow. It’s dead.

“Forgot to charge it,” he says through a yawn, looking around the room for his t-shirt. Braeden fishes it up from the floor, throwing it at his face. He’s too slow to catch it. Braeden giggles, looking smug.

“More like you talked all night, and fell asleep at the crack of dawn,” she says with a knowing grin. Derek feels his heartbeat quicken.

“Don’t even bother trying to deny it, mister. I heard your low, soothing baritone, rumbling on the other side of my wall.”

“Bullshit,” Derek says, and can practically hear the falseness to his voice. He’s a terrible liar. “I was watching TV,” he fibs. “Nature shows.”

“Nope.”

Braeden sprawls into the chair by the window. It has questionable stains on it, and once again Derek’s mind wanders to bacteria, and how Braeden seems weirdly attracted to it.

“What do you mean, ‘nope’? I was too. Wildlife on the African Savanna. Very interesting. Lots of gnus.”

“Nicely lied. I’m kinda impressed. But I stand by my ‘nope’,” says Braeden again, and god. Derek mentally curses. She’s grinning now. Devilishly.

“You see, I was the one who got these rooms, silly. The manager told me the TV was busted in this one. I got a discount, and then I let you have it. You never watch TV, anyway and I have Kardashians to keep up with. You on the other hand only bitch about how there’s nothing but reality shows and how they’re the downfall of our generation.”

“Well, they are,” Derek mutters darkly, eager for this conversation to be over.

“So,” drawls Braeden, dragging out the o like a coy Southern Belle. “How is Stiles?”

She’s adopted an air of innocence that’s fooling absolutely no one, twirling a lock of her dark hair, head cocked to one side.  
Derek busies himself with plugging his phone into the charger. He’s mortified that Braeden is calling him out like this, implying not only that he’s transparent in his worry, but also that it means more than it obviously does. Derek’s worried, but he would’ve been just as worried if it was Scott or Lydia.

Liar, the ghost of Laura whispers mockingly. Derek ignores her, instead focusing on ignoring Braeden. At the same time he can’t help wondering how Stiles is doing now. If his dad’s woken up yet. If they’ve talked.

He glares at the phone waiting for it to power up. It takes forever. Braeden flicks his ear.

“What?” he growls.

“I asked how Stiles is,” she repeats. “You two talked for a long time.” She drags out the o in long. It’s clearly becoming a thing. Derek doesn’t like it.

“Don’t worry,” she adds, inspecting her nails. “I didn’t hear a word. The walls are thin, but not thin enough for me to eavesdrop. Sadly.”

She plasters on a simpering smile and flutters her eyelashes.

“When are we leaving?” Derek asks, ignoring her question.

“Change of plans,” she announces, jumping to her feet again. She struts over to the mini fridge, helping herself to a bottle of water. “I have credible sources telling me the Desert Wolf is heading for Beacon Hills. I’m going back there.”

Derek freezes, his blood roaring in his ears.

“Wanna come?” Braeden chews on the bottle cap, eyebrows waggling. “It’ll give you chance to check up on your boy.”

“He’s not my boy,” Derek hisses, busying himself with pushing in the pin on his phone. It beeps to life.

“Whatever. The question remains. Do you want to go back?”

Does he?

Derek’s torn. On the one hand he wants to help. Feels like he kind of owes them. Stiles seems to be barely hanging on. On the other hand, he doesn’t feel ready. Not even remotely.

“I think I’ll sit this one out.”

The words almost gets stuck in his throat. He feels like he’s betraying someone. Letting everyone down. Like he’s running away. He is running away. He’s just not sure what he’s running towards. Or from.

“Shocker,” mumbles Braeden, rolling her eyes. “I suspected as much. Did anyone ever tell you you’re chicken-shit?”

Yeah, thinks Derek darkly. Laura did that. All the time. Laura was usually right. Like Braeden, she had a well-developed bullshit detector and a nose for secrets. He’s very glad their paths never crossed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he challenges, and regrets it immediately. That’s like poking a bear. Or a dragon. It never ends well.

“It means you’re a runner. You bail when things get tough, and no -” she waves a finger at his face, effectively silencing the protests building. “I don’t mean you run from fights. But you’re the type to flee when it gets tough, emotionally I mean.”

“Who died and left you their psychology diploma?” he asks snottily, hoping to derail her.

“You don’t need a Ph.D to call that one, buddy. It’s written all over you. Something has you emotionally scared in Beacon Hills. Why would you otherwise tag along with me to hunt for a coyote that’s never done anything to you?” Braeden tuts when Derek opens his mouth. “And don’t try to tell me it’s because of my winning personality. Or the sex,” she adds. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s good, but not _that_ good.”

Derek feels painted into a corner with limited viable escape routes. He can relent, and go back with her, which - no. There’s too much unresolved stuff, too much confusion for that to happen now. If ever. Or he can bluff and claim he’s got stuff to do. Places to be. Braeden would have to respect that, right? Leave him alone.

“I’ve some stuff to do first. I’ll go back when I’ve dealt with that.”

He preens a little. That sounded almost believable.

Braeden gives him an unreadable look. “Stuff?” She arches an eyebrow. Damn! She’s good at that.

“Yeah,” he nods, “stuff.” His mind is drawing a blank. She better not ask -

“What exactly does this stuff entail and where is it?”

Fuck!

Derek holds up a finger, the universal sign for “hold on just a sec” and struts to the bathroom. He goes through the motions of lifting the lid, sitting down and dear god, actually faking taking a dump, all to give himself some time to work out what to say to get Braeden to just pack up already and leave. When he exits, he’s feeling ridiculously proud. It’s the prefect excuse.

“So?”

Braeden tips her head back, still slumped in the chair, draining the last of her bottle. She tosses it towards the bin. It goes straight in, all net, three points.

“I’m visiting Cora.” Derek nods his head, sculpting his face in appropriate big brother folds. “I want to spend more time with her, get to know her better.”

“Commendable.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he adds, smiling. He’s maybe showing too much teeth. It feels fake. It _is_ fake. Braeden seems to be buying it though, which is the most important part after all.

“That’s so sweet. Does Cora know you’re coming?”

“Absolutely! She’s thrilled.”

“That’s so nice. Hold on, just a sec.”

Braeden flips out her phone from a magical invisible pocket in her tank top and quickly taps away on her screen. Next she puts it to her ear, holding it in place with her shoulder, eyes trained on Derek with a calculating look.

“What’s going on? Who’re you calling?”

Derek suddenly has a very bad feeling. Very.

“I’m calling Cora,” says Braeden with the air of a supreme court judge, not taking any bullshit, ready to throw down the gavel. Derek mentally flails.

“Why do you have her number? How do you have her number?” he all but shouts. Braeden rolls her eyes.

“I’m a US Marshall, Derek. Finding phone numbers isn’t exactly hard - oh, hello! Cora? Hi, this is Braeden, I’m currently road tripping with your brother Derek. Yes, hi. Oh, I’m fine thank you. And you?”

Derek is the epitome of serenity on the surface. Inside he’s having a breakdown, contemplating everything from fleeing, to ripping Braeden’s throat out - with his teeth. None are viable options. Sadly. He strains to hear what Cora is saying on the other end, but Braeden saunters over to the desk and flips on the table fan. He curses under his breath. Clearly she’s figured out monotone sounds makes it harder to pick up conversations and sounds. Derek honestly doesn’t get why, just that it’s to do with sound waves and dominance.

“So, Derek tells me he’s coming down to visit you. Yes. Oh, he’s very excited. Ecstatic in fact, won’t shut up about it. Yeah, yeah. I know.” She laughs. Cora speaks again.

“No, no, I’m flattered, thank you for the invite, but I actually need to get back to Beacon Hills. Derek’s adamant about visiting you first. Oh yes, very much so.”

Derek thinks he can hear the words _coward_ and _idiot_ and he really doesn’t like at all where this conversation is going.

“That would be perfect!” trills Braeden, giving Derek a thumbs up. “The timing is perfect, I can totally drive him to the airport. It’s on my way and not a bother at all. It was so nice talking to you. Bye.”

She hangs up with a grin the size of Texas.

“Good thing I called now, Cora is booking you a ticket right this minute. How’s that for coincident?”

Braeden’s phone beeps and she checks it. “Perfect, that’s the confirmation. Pack your bags and polish off your passport. We’re leaving in 20 minutes.”

“I don’t have a passport,” Derek says sulkily. Braeden scoffs.

“Nice try. I’ve seen it, I know where it is. It’s either a direct flight to South America, or head back to face whatever it is you’re running from. Your choice, buddy.”

Derek locates his passport and swears to avoid Braeden till his dying day.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entire chapter in Stiles' POV and follows some of the events of 5x12 "Damnatio Memoriae".

Stiles curses under his breath, wiping a bit of sweat off his forehead. He’s bent over his Jeep at an almost impossible angle, trying to reach - well, he’s got no idea what the part is called, only that it’s oily and not working right. Stiles knows next to nothing about cars, just that poor Roscoe is on the verge of a total breakdown, the engine made up of about 90 percent duct tape, and the rest pieced together by sheer will on his part. A small gust of wind, a slight bump in the road, and it all falls apart. It’s a fitting analogy for his life, his friendship with Scott, and his faith in well, everything.

Speaking of Scott. The door to his house opens and he walks out, an unreadable look on his face. Stiles sighs mentally. He recognizes the expression well enough to know Scott’s in one of his stubborn moods that usually ends with Stiles doing shit he he knows leads to disaster. Or at the very least a mild case of chaos. Some sort of danger’s definitely guaranteed.

He’d seen Liam walk in a few minutes ago, shoulders slumped. They’d exchanged short hellos, but not much else. Stiles knows about Liam’s Bruce Banner moment where he tried to pummel Scott into a pulp for not helping Hayden. He also knows it would never have happened if it hadn’t been for Theo’s clever manipulations. Sure, Liam is partially to blame for letting his anger rule him, but on the other hand he’s a new pup, with hardly more than a few full moons under his belt and a severe case of IED in the first place. Scott was a basket case too, his first few moons. Stiles still has the chains and the mental scars to prove it.

Besides, Stiles doesn’t need enhanced senses and chemo signals to know Liam’s terribly sorry, guilt-ridden and desperate for a second chance. Also, they could certainly use the help, what with the reckless and frankly stupid rescue mission Scott has planned. Stiles dearly hopes he’s in a forgiving mood. Both for Liam, but also for more selfish reasons. They need to have a serious talk about the Donovan situation, but it will be difficult if Scott is unwilling to shift his perspective. If he can’t do it for Liam, chances are he’s not gonna do it for Stiles, either.

Scott stops next to the Jeep, adjusting the light unnecessarily. Stiles can see well enough already. He doesn’t need help identifying the issues. He needs help solving them. Liam would be a welcome asset.

“So,” he asks fake-casually, continuing to tighten some sort of screw. “What did he want?”

“To help,” Scott says sullenly, as if he’s just read Stiles’ mind.  
  
“You gonna let him?”

Stiles holds his breath. Talking to Scott still feels like grinding his tongue against sanding paper. There’s friction, and not the good kind. Their relationship feels raw and wounded, the surface far from smooth.

“Eventually, I guess.”

Stiles sighs, continuing to mangle his Jeep’s engine in a lame attempt to channel some sort of expert mechanic. He’s probably not fooling anyone.

“Okay, but shouldn’t he be a little higher on your priority list right now? I mean, since he’s the only other actual werewolf, your only actual Beta.”

Yeah, okay. He sounds frustrated. There is no way Scott isn’t picking up on it. The purse of his lips confirms this.

“You didn’t see the way that he came at me. You didn’t see the look in his eyes.”

Stiles clenches his fist, quelling the urge to throw the wrench in frustration.

“Well,” he says tersely, “I’ve been with you on a full moon, so I’ve see that look.”

It’s meant to sting, but instead Scott just looks like a huge question mark. He probably thinks he’s joking. Great! Stiles sighs again. That’s all he seems to be doing these days. Sighing.

“You want to get the band together, Scott, you don’t leave out the drummer.”

Scott doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, he just watches silently as Stiles wipes his hands, lowers the hood, then climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the ignition key. The engine roars to life against all odds.

“Yes!” he cackles, pumping the air in triumph. Scott just stares from him to the fuel indicator and back. Stiles shrugs defensively.

“It’s a minor leak. Very minor.”

Scott looks unimpressed and anything but comforted. It’s going to be a very long ride.

 

  
**~**

  
Turns out the leak isn’t so minor after all.

Admittedly, that is a major miscalculation on Stiles’ part. He virtually feels the annoyance roll off Scott in waves, but refuses to grovel or apologize. He’s not a bloody mechanic and it’s not like he wanted to drive to New Mexico in the first place. In fact, he was dead against it, but relented. As always.

To make matters worse, they naturally had to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere, sun blazing, air dusty and humid. Add to that an uncomfortable silence as they’re wandering down a seemingly endless highway, and you’ve got the recipe for awkward. Tense awkward.

At first the drive isn’t as bad as first dreaded. In fact, everything seems almost okay as long as they stick to safe topics, like mutual enemies and beast speculations. Once these topics are exhausted they lapse into a suffocating silence. It feels as if a giant pink elephant is wedged between them, wearing neon spandex, a jaunty top hat, and singing folksy country tunes at the top of its lungs. There is no way Scott isn’t picking up on it, too. Which means he is ignoring it. Keeping up the habit of shoving stuff under the rug. Not that Stiles is any better, far from it. After all, he is the master of ignoring problems, hoping they’ll go away. Only, this time they aren’t going anywhere. Not unless they air their shit out. His talk with Derek has, amazingly helped Stiles put things in perspective.

As he trudges on in the blazing heat, Stiles rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck. It pops noisily, but it’s mostly drowned out by the sound of their shoes shuffling over the gravelly road. Stiles can feel it, though. Hears it magnified inside his head, and notices the tense muscles clench and unclench, sore and battered after hours draped across his dad’s hospital bed at an awkward angle, and now later behind the wheel. No one can accuse the Jeep of being a comfortable ride.

The pink tutu wearing elephant is accompanying them on their trek to find a gas station, doing nothing to help matters. The silence between them provides ample opportunity for Stiles to reflect on the latest developments, the most important being his dad’s recovery.

 

———————

After talking to Derek, Stiles finally falls asleep, his calming breaths soothing him into a fitful slumber. He wakes to the soul-warming sound of his dad’s voice, calling his name. He blinks awake groggily, the faint echos of his mother’s funeral once again playing before his inner eye. It takes a few moments before the fog clears and pure joy overtakes him. He clings to his dad so hard he can hear him wince in pain, but he doesn’t complain or ask for Stiles to let go. He can probably sense how much Stiles needs this. The reassurance. The proximity.

The day is spent pretty much keeping constant vigil at his dad’s bedside, unable to let him out of his sight for anything. The sheriff drifts in and out of sleep, still pretty drugged up and woozy. During one of these naps, Stiles succumbs to sleep again, slightly more peacefully now that he knows his dad will be okay.

When he wakes a while later, he discovers the hospital bed empty and cold. Heart racing in fear, Stiles rushes out the door, collides heavily with a nurse carrying a stack of linens, sending the sheets cascading to the floor like white ghosts. It ends in a verbal shouting match, the nurse berating him for running around like a lunatic, and Stiles demanding to know what’s happened to his dad. Melissa appears like magic, diffuses the situation and nudges Stiles in the right direction, a worried line visible on her forehead.

“He shouldn’t be wandering around in his condition,” she mutters angrily, making Stiles suspect his dad has coerced her somehow. He probably has. He’s good at that. Getting people to tell them things they want to hide, getting people to open up, to do what he wants. Bottom line, he’s a good cop. Stiles is ridiculously proud and heart-stoppingly terrified at the same time.

“Make sure he doesn’t pull his stitches,” Melissa yells after him, as Stiles pushes open the door to the corridor leading to the morgue. He knows the way well, which is a sad state for an 18 year old, but there you have it.

“I’m not patching him up if he returns bleeding,” she adds, but there’s no bite to it.

“Yes, you will,” replies Stiles with a sad smile.

“Yes I will,” Melissa grumblingly admits. “But I’ll not be happy about it. And I’ll revoke his desert privileges!”

“You’re a hard woman, Mrs. McCall.”

She rolls her eyes, curls bouncing as she shakes her head despairingly.

“Just get him back to bed, please. As soon as possible.”

Then she’s gone in a whirl of pink flowery scrubs.

  
*

 

The conversation with his dad is both a blur and crystal clear, which doesn’t make much sense but is still accurate. After, Stiles feels lighter somehow, despite his dad’s depressing reveal that his guilt will never go away. Not entirely. Stiles can live with that - well, he has to, more or less, but it still feels easier to bear knowing that his dad is in his corner. Fully. Unquestioningly.

“Did you really feel like you couldn't tell me?”

His dad looks at him with eyes so wounded Stiles feels as if something sharp is twisting around in his gut, tearing up his organs.

“I couldn't tell anyone,” he whispers almost inaudibly, eyes downcast. He couldn’t. Because it wasn’t really self-defense. He’d wanted Donovan dead. He had told Theo the truth that time in the car outside Deaton’s. Told him that he felt relieved after. He’d also felt horrified. Sick. Repentant. Guilty. But most of all, very very relieved.

“Did you think that I wouldn't believe that it was self-defense?”

The sheriff pins him with a look so hurt it cuts through the remnants of Stiles’ soul. There can’t be much left of it by now.

“What if it wasn't? What if I told you I wanted him dead?”

Admitting it aloud is - cathartic. And terrifying. He’s imagined this moment so many times, visualized his dad’s disappointed glare before he turns his back on him, once and for all. Stiles knows he’s a burden. Always has been. A kid with too much energy and a penchant for doing things before thinking it through. This, though. There is no getting around this. It doesn’t help to blame the ADHD or childish pranks. This is life, death and perhaps not premeditation, but certainly in the close vicinity.

He’s ready for the gavel to thunder down. For his dad to wash his hands of him. To finally be utterly alone in this world, his greatest fear.

“I'd believe you.”

That’s - What?

Stiles’ head whips up, eyes wide.

“I also believe that wanting someone dead and murdering them are two very different things.”

“Yeah, but what if the judge didn't think so?”

Stiles is persistent he shouldn’t be let off the hook. Not this easily. His dad’s next outburst shocks him to the core.

“Then to hell with the judge! Stiles, it was self-defense, and I would destroy every shred of evidence to protect you if I had to. I would burn the whole sheriff's station to the ground.”

Something warm is blooming in Stiles’ chest. Something entirely undeserving. His heart swells as his dad’s words hits him, but his brain is still determined to tear it all down.

“What about upholding the law? What about Kira?”

Kira didn’t know what she was doing, and yet his dad had thrown the book at her. Why should he be any different?

The sheriff rakes a tired hand over his face, leaning heavily against the cold chambers.

“Kira was a mistake,” he admits with a tired sigh. “I guess I'm learning how to bend.”

The last word is said with a heavy emphasis. As if it’s something foreign, like a exotic herb that burns his tongue. In a way it is.

“So, what, it just goes away?”

Stiles feels oddly numb all of a sudden. This seems too easy. It can’t be this easy? Can it?

His dad smiles sadly, pursing his lips.

“Not for you. The problem now is how to bear this burden. This kind of thing is not at all uncommon in law enforcement. A fatal mistake. A partner who dies. Or one who gets paralyzed. Stiles, you carry that with you. Sometimes it doesn't truly feel okay again until there's a kind of counterbalance.”

_Balance._

Why does it always come back to that? If there’s one thing Stiles isn’t, it’s balanced. This - well, this just makes him feel even more off-kilter than he already is. But at least he now has someone to share it with. To discuss it with. Someone who understands. Well, he kind of already has that. With Derek. Who is right, as it turns out. Squaring with his dad feels good, even if he can’t really help him. Not in the way he wants him to, at any rate.

“Like what?” he asks, voice raspy.

“Like instead of taking a life, you manage to save one. Something like that can help, but maybe only for a moment. But the real conflict you're having now is between your head and your heart. Your head. Your head knows that the only crime you committed was surviving. But your heart? Your heart still thinks it was murder. So I guess you, uh... You gotta get your heart to catch up to your head.”

Stiles’ breath hitches. This little sound escapes him, sort of like wounded animal. It’s a fitting comparison.

“I feel like it's more than guilt though, you know, I feel like... I feel like I lost something. You know, I feel like I can't get it back.”

It’s been like that ever since the void fly was purged from his body. This feeling didn’t magically appear with Donovan. Donovan only made the hole bigger. Impossible to ignore. As if it was just a small bullet hole before. Now, a bigger part has been carved out, speared his chest just like Donovan’s, taking with it even more of what was good in him. Destroyed him more. Maybe beyond repair.

“You won't. Not entirely. But you get a little bit by forgiving yourself. And since that's not always the easiest thing in the world to do, then maybe you start by forgiving someone else. Someone who probably really needs it.”

His dad’s words are honest, painful and yet bring with them a little glimmer of hope. It can get better. Better is not perfect but still more than nothing. Better than the status quo.

“Someone like Scott,” he whispers, not expecting a confirmation or contradiction. He knows this. Knows that he should forgive him. But that goes both ways, doesn’t it?

  
*

  
He takes his dad’s advice. Sort of.

Parrish brings over his dad’s laptop and Stiles shamelessly takes advantage and filters through everything that looks even vaguely interesting while his dad naps. When he finds a discrepancy, he hesitantly brings it to Scott. Not as a peace-offering exactly, but more a show of faith. They can work the lead better together, and hopefully it can inch them closer to what they really need, namely to sit down and talk about things properly.

They find where the shadowy beast that killed the electrician came from. In the process they also cross paths with Theo and his merry band of undead chimeras, which is a solid 7 on Stiles’ horror scorecard, 10 being a zombie apocalypse. Stiles isn’t exactly wild about the dose of Kanima poison either that once again sends him sprawling to the floor in an ungainly heap. It’s damned hazardous living on the edge of a hellmouth. Especially when it turns out the Dread Doctors are trying to resurrect a monster, which definitely rates as a 9. No wonder scientists have set the world clock two minutes from doomsday. 

The beast even leaves behind a calling card. _Damnatio Memoriae_ \- the condemnation of memory. It strikes a somber mood, and something cold shifts inside Stiles when he sees the words. A chill runs down his spine and ends in a by now familiar and foreboding churning in his gut. This feels important somehow, even more so than the Doctors and the beast. Like a warning. It doesn't make any sense, but then again little in Stiles' life does, so he shoves it under the infamous rug along with a myriad of other topics he's not ready to view in daylight. 

In the end they're not much wiser after this little expedition than before. But futile as it might feel, it fast tracks Scott’s need to get the gang back together, which in a warped not-spoken-out-loud way means Scott forgives all and everyone without admitting to it or uttering any form of apologies. Stiles feels cheated somehow. He also manages to get Stiles to pledge his renewed allegiance to the pack by drawing circles in the sand. It doesn’t quite sit right with him, but he does it anyway, adding a halfhearted _“I still hate that tattoo”_ , which is true but also holds traces of something more. Scott simply laughs and helps him to his still uncooperative feet, completely missing the underlying meaning as usual.

  
———————

Which brings them right back to where they are now. Still at a standstill, the air not cleared between them. Sort of like the air here in the desert, dusty and hard to breathe.

Stiles takes a swig of his water bottle, then offers it wordlessly to Scott. How long have they been walking now? A mile? Two? It’s hard to tell, the landscape unchanging and endless. He wipes his forehead, sighs and trudges on. Allows his mind to wander again while they continue to walk.

The water runs out just as the sun is at it’s highest on the sky, blazing down on them like a furnace. Then, out of nowhere, like a mirage, a gas station appears. They run towards it like giddy stallions let out of the stable after days of inactivity, only to discover that it’s closed.

They stop and stares, then looks at each other, shrugging. Scott heads for the pumps, making short work of the chains, while Stiles tries the door, just in case. It’s closed. He stares inside, praying for movement. There’s none. All he can see is a display of wrenches in varying size. It makes him think of Donovan, of his Jeep and how he can’t seem to fix it, only patches it up temporarily with tape. Just like his relationship with Scott. It’s been patched up so many times, duct tape isn’t doing the job anymore.

Maybe it’s time to try a wrench? If Scott’s not going to take the initiative, perhaps he should?

Stiles walks over to where Scott is filling up the can with gas. He looks up, meets his gaze then averts it. Maybe he can sense it? That Stiles is about to talk about something difficult? Feelings? Stuff they don’t agree on? He’s probably giving off some telling chemo signals. Out here there’s nowhere to run, though.

“There was a pin.”

He startles himself. The words just tumble out without a conscious effort to it. Like they’d been ready, at the tip of his tongue for a long time, just waiting for an opportunity to cascade out like a wild waterfall.

“There was one little metal pin attached to the scaffolding. He was trying to pull me down.”

Scott’s eyes are - well, unreadable.

“He was trying to kill you,” he blurts, not really a question. More like a statement of the clarifying kind. Stiles nods.

“Yes, and then I pulled the pin. And all these metal braces came down. And one of them just, just went right through him.”

Scott is silent for a little while, securing the cap on the can.

“Why didn't you think you could tell me?”

Yeah, right. That. Stiles sighs deeply, not sure how to phrase this in a way that won’t leave him stranded alone in the dessert, friendless and packless.

“It was just the way you were looking at me that night,” he begins, sensing that this isn’t the way to go about things. That he won’t manage to accurately convey what he really feels. Still, he tries. Hoping that Scott might see it from his side. Realize that some standards are impossible to live by, and that it’s cruel to demand that you do.

“You know, you're standing there with a wrench in your hand, you're looking at me like I just bashed you in the head with it. You know, like I'd broken your sacred rule and that's it, there's no going back.”

Scott chews his bottom lip, tilts his head slightly to the side. It’s his thinking pose. Stiles feels hopeful. Then his uneven jaw clenches, his eyes narrow, and Stiles’ heart sinks.

“I know the difference,” Scott says matter-of-factly. Tersely. Like Stiles had just insulted his integrity. Which he hasn’t. He’s just questioned his benchmarking strategy and insistence on perfection from everyone around him, when he’s far from perfect himself. No one is. Stiles certainly isn’t, but with they ideology Scott has been building, he’s doomed to fail.

“What?” Stiles barks, already annoyed and wanting desperately for a wand and the ability for apparition, wizarding style, so he can get out of dodge. Now.

“I know what self-defense is.”

With that Scott grabs the can and starts walking back. Stiles is left, somehow feeling as if the little progress he made after talking with his dad has been ripped from underneath him.

Before he can question his motives, Stiles grabs his phone, pulling up his favorites and taps on Derek’s name. It goes straight to voicemail. When the beep sounds, Stiles intends to hang up. Honestly. Instead, he leaves a mostly incoherent message.

“Hey, so. It’s me. Stiles. Yeah, you probably heard that. Anyway, just wanted to say thanks. And you were right. Which, you should be thankful you now have on tape because, only happens once every thousand years. I told dad. He’s - he’s awesome. And getting better, which is also awesome. So, go charge your phone and let me know you’re alive, okay. Bye.”

Stiles cringes as he hits the end button. That was - terrible! He slaps his forehead repeatedly, muttering expletives under his breath, then kicks the pump for good measure.

“You coming or what?”

Scott is just a pinprick in the horizon by now, and probably heard all of that with his stupid sonic hearing. Stiles kicks the pump again again, then walks off with a slight limp.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going forward you can expect bigger skips in time, less rehash of canon scenes and more offscreen stuff :)


	6. Chapter 6

When Derek steps off the plane he’s irritable to put it mildly. He hates to fly. Loathes it. Being confined in a metal box for prolonged periods of time grates on his every nerve, not to mention the assault to his senses. The stale air, the mixture of scents ranging from anxious to drunk, the noise, the horrible food. The list goes on and on. He can stomach short distance, but international flights are a horror show.

This was no exception.

He blames Cora. And Braeden. Cora and Braeden. That’s a toxic combination he dearly hopes will never mix again. They’re basically like a high school science experiment gone horribly awry, and he’s the unfortunate idiot left to clean up their mess. Not that he minds visiting Cora, it’s more the principle of the thing. He’s a grown man capable of making his own decisions after all. But then again, he did kind of set himself up for this one. Oh whatever. He should just make the best of it, now that the horrid transportation part is over.

Derek fans himself with his passport as he waits impatiently to clear customs. The woman in front of him wears liberal amounts of perfume, the kind that makes you nauseous and lightheaded if you breathe it in too deeply. Combine it with the stench of stale sweat from the pimply kid ahead of her, and Derek’s carefully monitored control is about to snap.

Thankfully, another booth opens up and he quickly escapes, weaving seamlessly between hordes of other desperate people until he’s almost at the front of the line. Naturally, he’s stuck behind a family with three clearly exhausted children, because karma clearly is a bitch. Two of them insist on wailing loudly the entire time, and Derek swears they’re working in carefully calculated shifts to make sure there’s not a moment’s silence. It takes the customs officer far too long to comb through all the passports, stamp them, and try to extract the bare minimum of information from the parents. Despite the constant crying, Derek finds it’s almost therapeutic watching them. They’re clearly struggling even worse than him, which helps puts things in perspective. When he’s finally collected his luggage and heads for the arrival area, Derek’s almost smiling.

His good mood evaporates the moment he spots the sign.

It’s one of those obnoxiously large posters, neon yellow and so drenched in glitter it distracts from the actual text. Derek has time to almost send out a warm thought to whatever poor schmuck is the target of this cruel display when he realizes he’s the poor schmuck.

_**Der-bear!** _

Derek feels his cheeks color a brilliant shade of pink that not even his thick stubble can hide. Around him people are pointing at the poster, giggling and mumbling amusedly. Derek don’t really blame them, and Jesus Christ! He slaps a hand over his eyes in mortification. The exclamation point is heart-shaped and he wants to die. Or run back onto the plane, possibly hide in the wing as a blind passenger, dropping out over the ocean without a parachute never to be seen again.

_“Der-bear!”_

Too late!

Cora materializes from the crowd - a crowd where all heads turn in perfectly timed sync, like spectators at a tennis match, to find who exactly Der-bear is. She flings herself into his embrace and clings to him like a Panda.

“You grumpy fool,” she breathes into his ear. Derek can feel her smiling, - no she’s clearly _grinning_ , all teeth and a pinch of malice for good measure. The women in his life sure do know how to torture him.

Derek knows better than to try and pry her off, so he simply stands there, patting her shoulder awkwardly. After what feels like four score and seven years, she releases him, taking a step back to survey him, head cocked.

“You look pissed,” she observes conversationally. Derek snorts.

“I’m not,” he says tersely, causing Cora to snort in turn. They could probably continue like that all day.

“You are too, and it serves you right for using your poor baby sister as an excuse not to go back to Beacon Hills. You’re a coward, Derek Hale.”

The last part is said in an obnoxious sing-song tone that bears a striking resemblance to Laura.

“I’m not,” he protests childishly. Cora grins like a Cheshire Cat. All that’s missing is a jaunty top hat.

“Do you like the poster?” she asks innocently instead, brandishing the abomination in his face. Glitter falls off it in waves.

“It’s hideous,” says Derek honestly. The bloody thing burns his retina. That kind of yellow should be forbidden. “It’s so fucking ridiculous, like something - “

“Stiles would do?”

Cora is the epitome of doe-eyed innocence as she says this, casually grabbing one of Derek’s bags and slinging it over one shoulder like it’s nothing more than a light jacket. Derek notices a guy do a double take, and ushers her out of the terminal before more people take notice.

“I was going to say ‘something a child would do’,” replies Derek, his teeth clenched. “Which, when I think about it, is basically the same thing. So yeah. Definitely.”

“Nice save,” commends Cora, walking backwards towards the parking lot. “Your heart is doing interesting skips, though. Wonder what that’s all about.”

The sound of breaks screeching startles them both. A green Fiat Punto in dire need of a paint job has stopped three inches from Cora. A guy with a mustache the size of a medium possum sticks his head out and starts yelling in agitated Spanish. Cora flips him off, grabs Derek’s hand and pulls him away just as the man, who’s probably part of a cartel and packing some serious heat, is about to exit his car.

They run towards an old beat up truck where a dark-skinned young man of about 20 sits behind the wheel. Cora screams at him, and Derek curses because his Spanish is clearly rusty, but it did kind of sound like she’s asking him to get the hell out of dodge. A minute later they’re speeding down a high way, mustache man long since left in the dust.

“Welcome to Chile, brother,” grins Cora. Derek quietly thinks he’s made a huge mistake.

 

**~**

 

  
Cora lives on an enormous farm owned and run by her alpha and his wife. The alpha is called Alejandro and Derek likes him right off the bat. He wasn’t around the last time he was here, dropping off Cora, but it’s evident he’s a fair and kind man. His wife Derek remembers vividly. She’s all smiles and hugs him like he’s a long lost relative come to visit. In a sense, he kind of is.

“You’re way too skinny,” she announces in a heavy English accent, pinching his cheek for good measure. Somewhere behind him Cora burst out laughing.

“Don’t worry, we’ll fatten you up soon enough. Cora, dear. Show your brother to his room.”

With that they’re shooed from the kitchen like unruly children. The sensation is achingly familiar.

Cora saunters ahead, this time not bothering to help with his bags. Derek mutters under his breath. The grin she tosses over her shoulder tells him she hears him well enough, but doesn’t care. He resigns himself to days with embarrassing torture to make up for his little lying stunt.

The room is surprisingly big, airy and light. Derek sighs gratefully as he sinks into the frankly heavenly mattress. He didn’t get much sleep last night, and nothing on the flight. Cora disappears for a few moments, mumbling something about towels. Derek uses the reprieve to turn his phone back on. He’s got one missed call from Stiles. His heart skips a beat when he sees he’s left a message.

 _It’s just because I’m worried about him_ , Derek reassures himself, which is ridiculous. What grown man needs to justify his own reactions? It’s perfectly normal to be apprehensive when a friend might have bad news. Honestly!

Before his traitorous mind can come up with counter-arguments, Derek hits the button playing Stiles’ message.

_“Hey, so. It’s me. Stiles. Yeah, you probably heard that. Anyway, just wanted to say thanks. And you were right. Which, you should be thankful you now have on tape because, only happens once every thousand years. Roughly. I - I told dad. He’s - he’s awesome. And getting better, which is also awesome. So, go charge your phone and let me know you’re alive, okay. Bye.”_

“Still rambles when he’s nervous, I hear.”

Derek startles - again. God, he’s jumpy these days! Cora drops a pile of fluffy towels on the bed, then throws herself on top of them, like the obnoxious and teasing sister she apparently is.

“Stiles, I mean,” she clarifies unnecessarily. “He obviously hasn’t changed. Which is good. I like that. It’s refreshing. And entertaining.” She laughs, then rolls her eyes fondly. “Mostly entertaining. Anyway, your relationship however has changed since I left.”

Derek jumps to his feet, immediately busying himself with unpacking. His neck feels warm.

“No, it hasn’t. I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Bullshit.”

Cora tosses a pillow at him. Derek catches it midair with a growl, then throws it back with unnecessary force. Cora catches it deftly, flipping it behind her head before crossing her arms and regarding him through narrow eyes.

“You’re full of shit, Derek. I remember you two throwing insults at each other with lots of sass and sarcasm mixed in. That message however was -” She pauses for a moment, clearly searching for the right words. “That was the kind of message I would expect him to leave for someone like Scott. Someone he trusts.”

“You’re reading way too much into it,” mumbles Derek, fishing out his phone charger. “You shouldn’t jump to conclusions based on a few sentences either.”

“I’m not.” Cora smirks, twinning a strand of hair around her index finger. “I talk to Lydia. She’s a well of information and astute observations.”

Derek clenches his teeth, his emotions a conflicting jumble. On the one hand he likes to hear that Cora is in touch with others from Beacon Hills. On the other hand, that makes her potentially more informed than he’s comfortable with. Not that there’s anything to be informed about, but still.

“I need a shower,” he mumbles, gesturing for Cora to leave. Surprisingly, she gets the drift.

“You really do,” she says smirking. “Don’t forget to let Stiles know you’re alive.”

Derek is now certain. He’s absolutely made a huge mistake.

 

  
**~**

 

  
After a shower, Derek collapses on the bed and promptly falls asleep. He has no idea how long he’s been out, but when Cora rudely wakes him it’s almost dark outside so he reckon it’s been a few hours at least. He still feels groggy and wants nothing more than to simply turn over and fall back into oblivion. That’s not happening, though. Cora rips the covers off him, then jumps up on the bed like a five year old, chanting for him to get up. In the end he does. Besides, he’s hungry.

There’s no new messages on his phone. Derek feels a pang of guilt. Stiles had asked him to get back to him, but there’s no way he’s doing that with Cora in the room. He puts the phone in his pocket, in case he can sneak away for a minute to at least send a text. Derek ignores Cora’s infuriating smirk, and pretends to be immensely interested in the paintings on the wall outside in the corridor. He suspect he isn’t fooling anyone, not even the slightly creepy portraits whose eyes seem to follow him as they walk.

Dinner is a boisterous affair. Alejandro sits at the top of the table, just like mom used to do. The dining room table is long and filled to the brim with lots of grinning and happy looking people. Most are werewolves Derek notices, but there’s a few exceptions. Like the handsome guy who acted as their getaway driver at the airport. Cora sits next to him, casting him flirtatious smiles, and tossing her hair. She’s clearly smitten, and Derek can sense the attraction goes both ways. It seems new, though. He’s pretty sure northing’s happened yet. Which is just as well. Cora’s way too young to be dat- .

Derek stops mid-chew, mentally slapping himself. It’s not the first time he’s done that. Made judgments on behalf of Cora based on an age she’s no longer at. Derek’s image of Cora froze at the time of the fire, certain she’d died with the others. Even though he now knows she’s aged, and is on the verge of womanhood, he still has trouble merging these two versions together. Spending time with her will surely help in that regards. Hopefully.

Derek really likes Alonso who’s sitting next to him. They strike up a conversation about construction, something Derek actually knows a bit about after working a few sites while they lived in New York. Alonso runs a local construction company and is currently in charge of building a new school outside of town. Before long Derek’s been invited to help if he wants to, and he surprises himself by saying yes.

Derek soon learns Alonso is one of the alpha’s sons - possibly the one first in succession? Derek hasn’t gotten them all figured out yet, there’s so many new faces to keep track of, and he’s not really good with this sort of thing. The social interactions and small talk was always something he shied away from. Whenever his mom entertained, it was always excepted of them to make an appearance, sometimes even participate in the dinners. Naturally, Laura loved it with the same passion Derek loathed it. They truly were polar opposites in almost all regards. They’d found common ground after the fire, first and foremost in their grief.

Before Derek knows it, dinner is over, desert has been served and devoured, and then Agustina (”No, no, don’t call me Senora Silva, por favor, call me Agustina, mi hijo”) is ushering them out into the other living room, ordering some of the younger girls to fetch coffee and snacks in rapid Spanish.

“Come, come,” she says, steering Derek towards a sofa with surprising force for such a small woman. Two very attractive young women are already sitting there, all smiles, golden skin and giving off waves of sensual chemo signals. He’s pretty sure they’re Agustina’s daughters and Derek suddenly feels like an involuntary participant in a warped dating show.

“Sit, sit,” urges Agustina, patting the practically non-existent space between the two beauties. Derek must’ve dropped his voice somewhere between the dining table and here, because before he can utter a single word he’s squeezed in between them, engulfed in flowery perfume. He can hear Cora’s amused giggles clear across the room, and he shoots her an angry glare. It only causes her to laugh harder.

The next half hour is pure torture. Alonso, Alejandro and a few of the other men sit across from them, chatting but Derek has a hard time keeping up, and an even worse time trying to participate in the conversation. His two designated bombshells, Isadora and Sofia, demand too much of his attention. He can see Agustina nodding happily in the background, probably already planning the wedding reception.

“You have such mesmerizing eyes,” coos Isadora in surprisingly good English. Derek is very glad he’s neglected to let them know he speaks passable Spanish. He fears that would only expedite the initiation process, and it’s already going at warp speed. He’s pretty sure Sofia is undressing him with her eyes.

“Thanks,” he presses out between clenched teeth, gently prying away her finger that’s been tracing invisible patters across his arm for the last few minutes. It’s meant to be a subtle sign that he’s not interested. Instead, she clearly interprets it as a sign to intertwine their fingers.

“Do you like mine?” she whispers hoarsely, leaning forward in a way that clearly invites him to look at a whole other part of her anatomy beside her eyes.

“Sure,” Derek croaks, wondering if it would be considered rude to flee now, before coffee is even served. True, he is still tired, but on the other hand he doesn’t really want to offend anyone on his first night. Cora, the traitor, has escaped out onto the patio with the other teenagers, leaving Derek to fend for himself against two prowling lionesses.

He’s doomed. Trapped like a frail gazelle, just waiting for them to pounce.

He jerks violently when his pocket suddenly vibrates like it’s housing an angry bee. Sofia and Isadora lets out perfectly synchronized shrieks when he springs to his feet, fishing his phone out. Another intense buzz and he almost drops it, his fingers uncooperative and clumsy. Stiles’ name is plastered across the screen on top of a silly selfie the caller must’ve taken and added to his contact listing. Derek supposes it’s meant to look like he’s growling, complete with those impossibly long fingers curled into a mock-claw.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, untangling his feet from Sofia and Isadora’s shapely legs that they’ve somehow have managed to wrap halfway around his calves. “Sorry,” he repeats, nodding apologetically in Agustina’s direction. She’s frowning.

“I gotta take this, thank you all so much for the hospitality and the meal. It was fantastic.”

Without waiting for a reply, Derek escapes into the hallway and hits accept.

“Hey,” he half whispers, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Hey yourself.”

Stiles’ voice is a little raspy, the tone of his voice indicating he’s tired. “Glad to hear you’re alive. You’ve gone radio silent for more than a day. You drop your phone in the toilet?”

Derek rolls his eyes, stepping into his room and closing the door behind him. He crosses the room and closes the windows as well. Conversations in the vicinity of werewolves are seldom hundred percent private. Still, he doesn’t have to make it easy on them. There’s a ceiling fan in the room, and he locates the switch to turn it on, knowing it will make listening in harder.

“No, he replies smartly, “I didn’t drop it in the toilet. I had it turned off for a while, is all.”

“Wow, sure. Didn’t even know you knew how to turn it on and off, technophobic as you are.”

Derek knows Stiles is smiling. For some reason he’s smiling too, and not at all annoyed about the insult.

“I was starting to become a bit worried,” Stiles admits. “I left you a message letting you know you were right. I was sure you’d call back to gloat or something.”

“Oh, I’m gonna gloat,” reassures Derek cheekily. “In fact, I’m gonna sample that part and use it as my new ring tone.”

“No, you’re not.” Stiles giggles.

“Is that right?”

“Yup, empty threat, will never happen. You don’t even know how to change your alerts. Is your phone still quaking like a duck?”

“Idiot.”

“Technological imbecile.”

Derek’s dumped down on his bed - god this mattress really is divine. He might have to steal it when he leaves. Or at least order an identical one. If he only knew where to send it…

They don’t speak for a few moments, but somehow it’s not awkward. It’s all very weird.

“So,” Derek finally says, dragging out the o. “You told your dad?”

“Yeah, yeah I did. He, - he took it well.”

“Told you he would,” says Derek, startled by the fondness in his voice. “So, you’re good?”

“Yeah,” breathes Stiles. Derek pictures him smiling crookedly. “Yeah, we’re good. He’s - He actually said he’d burn down the station to protect me, but that it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t premeditated.”

“I would expect nothing less. Good parents will scorch the earth to protect their own. And he’s right. It wasn’t premeditated, and you know that as well.”

The line is quiet for a few seconds, then Stiles sighs deeply. “I’m working on it,” he admits softly. “Dad says it will take time for my heart to catch up to my head.”

Derek is struck by the accuracy of that statement. It’s been years since the fire, and he’s not yet there. Stiles is in for a bumpy ride. Good thing he’s got good people in his corner.

“You’ll get there,” says Derek, overwhelmed by hope that it will. It’s agony living with guilt, and he doesn’t wish that on anyone, least of all Stiles.

Stiles makes a non-committal sound before the line goes quiet again. Derek searches his mind for something to say, preferably something that will get Stiles’ mind off the depressing subject, at least for a little while. Stiles beats him to it.

“So, what’s up, sourwolf?”

Derek lets the annoying nickname go without comment. He suspects Stiles is trying to get a rise out of him.

“I’m in Chile.”

Stiles snorts. “Wow, you should really drop the hip lingo, dude. Derek Hale is not meant to throw out lines about chillin’. I don’t think you even know what it is.”

Derek rolls his eyes in what he’s beginning to dub ‘the Stiles loop’.

“ _Chile_ , as in the country located in South America. Not chilling. Honestly, I’m not Snoop Dog.”

Stiles guffaws on the other end. Derek can picture him throwing his head back, mouth open. Stiles doesn’t laugh often, but when he does, when he really laughs, he does so with everything he’s got.

“Chile? Really? Whatever for? You trying to join a cartel or - Fuck, I forgot. Cora! Well, I guess that explains why I couldn’t get hold of you. You’ve been stuck on a plane?”

Derek nods, then remembers that Stiles can’t see him.

“Yeah, and then I feel asleep once I got here. We’ve just finished dinner with the Pack. Your timing was impeccable. Agustina - that’s the alpha’s wife, seems to be trying to pair me off with one of her daughters. They weren’t exactly subtle. Your phone call saved me from being felt up in the living room.”

Stiles produces a choked sort of sound that Derek isn’t entirely sure how to interpret.

“You’re welcome,” he retorts, voice unreadable. “I’ll let Braeden know I saved her man from getting sexed up by Latinas.”

“Why?” blurts Derek before he’s had a chance to form a coherent thought. “We’re not dating.”

“Oh, okay.”

Stiles goes quiet for a split second, then - “I wondered why she showed up here without you. Scott insisted you two were boning. I guess he was wrong?”

Derek almost splits his lip, biting down hard on it in near-shock. He should be used to this by now. Stiles’ penchant for the unfiltered thoughts and direct questions.

“Uhm,” he supplies unhelpfully.

“Nice clarification,” drawls Stiles. “Not that it’s any of my business who you date or -”

“We’re not dating,” Derek repeats.

“No?”

It’s impossible to interpret his tone. Not that Derek has a need to interpret it or anything. He’s just checking up on Stiles, checking in, really. And they’re semi-friendly, catching each other up. Perfectly normal.

“No,” Derek repeats, feeling suddenly daring. “Not boning anymore either for that matter. Not after she sold me down the river.”

He ends up regaling Stiles with the whole story of Cora and Braeden conspiring to fly him to Chile. Stiles’ peals of laughter is infectious. Soon Derek is smiling too, wider than he has in days. Weeks. Months. Years.

“It’s good, though, right?” Stiles asks later. “Visiting Cora, I mean. I liked her. She was - spunky.”

Derek snorts.

“Yeah, that’s one way of describing her. And I think it’ll be good. As long as I can avoid Isadora and Sofia,” he ads with a slight shudder.

“The Latina Bombshells? Not looking for a new girlfriend, then? A nice girl to settle down with. Produce a cub or two.”

“Cub?” Derek’s eyebrows are threatening to demolish the ceiling.

“You’re deflecting,” sing-songs Stiles. Derek sighs.

“No,” he answers dejectedly. “Definitely not looking for a new girlfriend. Or cubs,” adds sarcastically.

“Duly noted,” replies Stiles with a slight yawn.

“What’s got you so tired? I thought your dad was doing okay?”

“Oh, dad is fine. In fact, he’s released from hospital already. I’m just exhausted from the roadtrip to New Mexico to rescue Kira from a gang of skin walkers. You know, the usual.”

Now it’s Derek’s turn to gape, slack-jawed and demand a recap. Stiles is an animated storyteller, with a penchant for going into details and long rambling tangents when the opportunity allows it. They talk for hours, and before Derek knows it he’s fallen asleep on the phone with Stiles for the second time in just a few days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

“Dad! Is that a cup of coffee?

Stiles glares at his dad from the doorway. He’s caught red-handed, just about to inhale what looks like a small tub of caffeinated liquid. If the situation weren’t so deadly serious, so detriment to his dad’s continued good health, the display would actually be kind of funny.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Melissa specifically tell you no caffeine for the next few weeks!”

“It’s tea,” the sheriff lies unconvincingly. Stiles purses his lips and shakes his head, much like a put-upon parent. It really is a good thing his dad’s on the right side of the law, otherwise he’d be locked up by now. His acting is terrible. Borderline cringe-worthy, guaranteed a nomination at the Razzie awards.

“Nice try,” he says with a scowl, plucking the enormous cup out of his dad’s hands who in turn makes pathetic gimme gestures, clasping at thin air where the cup used to be. The whole thing is like plucked out of a bad sitcom, just - thankfully - without the laugh track.

“Where did you find this monster by the way? If it wasn’t for the handle, I’d accuse it of being a bucket. Kinda lopsided, though. Did you get this at the dollar store?”

Stiles maneuvers the cup over to the sink and unceremoniously pours the pitch-black coffee down the drain. It smells heavenly, hitting his nostrils like an alluring perfume. Stiles would love nothing but to inhale it all himself, but he’s determined to set a good example. To do something right, for once.

“Your mom gave it to me. She made it in pottery class.”

That word has magic abilities. _Mom_. For Stiles it pauses everything. His mind, his breathing, his movements. Only for a few moments, but it’s enough time to make sure that one memory after another resurfaces, pushing into each other, digging up new ones, like warped dominoes.

“Oh,” is all he manages to produce, taking care to rinse the cup properly, setting it reverently to dry on the counter. Her work. Not great work, objectively speaking. The mug is chipped, crooked and horribly decorated. And yet, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in years.

“Not an artistic bone in her body,” mumbles his dad, like he can read Stiles’ mind. His voice has taken on a fond yet sad tinge that gets to Stiles every time. How is he supposed to keep it together if his dad, the strongest guy he knows, a freaking sheriff, is affected like this?

“That cup is the only halfway thing she produced, and I suspect it came out somewhat alright only because she scaled it up. A lot.”

Stiles dives for the fridge, taking care to stick as much of his body as possible inside it, mostly to avoid looking at his dad. The cold soothes his glowing cheeks, and after about a minute it feels safe to resurface. By then his dad has busied himself with a bowl of cereal and is skimming the morning newspaper, equally as intent to let the matter lie. They’ve been doing this for years. They’re depressingly good at it.

His dad still looks pale and banged up, a faint bruise visible on the back of his neck, but other than that the doctors have given him a clean bill of health. Stiles still can’t help the need to fuss. Which is why he spent half an hour hounding Melissa for tips on how to speed up his recovery. It was during this little session she mentioned the coffee. It wasn’t a ban so much as a gentle recommendation, but Stiles had clung to it like a man possessed.

For the next few minutes they simply eat in companionable silence. Stiles feels bone tired. The simple task of chewing feels like a chore. It’s been one of those nights where one nightmare proceeds the next. He doesn’t wake screaming anymore, thankfully. But he still wakes up, exhausted, as if he’s been fighting for his life all night long. Mentally, he has.

These days it’s an odd combination of guilt over Donovan, fear for Lydia and what they might be doing to her at Eichen House, and a general simmering paranoia regarding the scary combination of Dread Doctors, chimeras and a shadowy beast. On top of that there’s homework and his dad’s health. It’s not ideal, and Stiles is man enough to admit, albeit only to himself, that he’s not coping too well. His own mental health needs to take a back step, though.

“You seem preoccupied.”

Stiles startles a little, dropping his spoon with a clank, sending a small spray of milk onto the table cloth.

“Also, jumpy,” adds his dad, one eyebrow raised. “That’s never a good sign. What’s troubling you?”

On one had Stiles doesn’t want to burden his dad. On the other hand they promised each other full disclosure from now on. It’s tempting to fall back into old habits and just shrug it all away, but he knows his dad won’t go for that. Not anymore. So he settles for a compromise - he’ll confide in his dad, just not about everything.

“I was thinking about Lydia,” he says with a shrug.

“Nothing new, in other words.”

The sheriff smirks, looking so much like a dad it’s ridiculous.

“So not funny,” mumbles Stiles, throwing in an eye roll for good measure. “I’m not pining after her anymore, if that’s what you’re implying. Honestly, I got over that crush a long time ago.”

“I know, I’m just teasing you. That reminds me, I haven’t really seen Malia around lately. She good?”

Stiles shrugs, chasing the by now soggy cheerios around the bowl with his spoon.

“I guess. She’s running around with Braeden, I think. I suspect they’re cooking up some scheme to catch the Desert Wolf.”

“You guess?”

“I’m not her keeper, dad. Jesus!”

His dad throws his hands up, and promptly winces. He really shouldn’t be back to work yet, but Stiles knows better than to try and stop him.

“Sorry, didn’t know it was a sore subject. I just assumed you knew what your girlfriend was up to.”

“She’s not my girlfriend anymore. I think,” Stiles adds after a moments hesitation. They never really spelled it out, but the implication was clear. Clear enough.

“Oh my, I really have been out of it. Anything else I should know about?”

The sheriff looks genuinely sad.

“Probably.” Stiles leans back in his chair, sighing deeply. “I’ve lost track of what you know and don’t know.”

The Sheriff mirrors Stiles and leans back in his own chair, grabbing blindly for a cup that isn’t there. He settles for a glass of juice, lips pursed.

“Did you say Braeden? The one with the shotgun? I thought she left town with Derek?”

“She did.”

“And now she’s back?”

“Yup.”

Stiles pops the P.

His dad just stares ahead for a moment, then asks “Does that mean Derek’s back too?”

Stiles shakes his head, over-doing it slightly in an effort to hide all signs of disappointment that might show up on his face. His dad’s not a great actor, but truthfully he’s hardly any better.

“No, he’s in Chile.”

“Chilling? Really?”

Stiles snorts despite himself, amused that his dad misinterpreted it exactly like he did.

“No, dad. _Chile_ \- as in the country. It’s where Cora lives.”

The sheriff nods slowly, a wrinkle showing on his forehead. It ends in a sad half-smile.

“Good for him. He’s had a rough go of it, it’s probably better not to be tangled up in this mess.”

Stiles doesn’t comment. He’s kind of annoyed with himself, because on the one hand he couldn’t agree more. Beacon Hills has been shitty to Derek, and he deserves to be away from it with the chance for a fresh start. On the other hand - Okay, so he doesn’t really know what the other hand is. Only that it’s got something to do with the slight hole Stiles can feel in the pit of his stomach every time he thinks about it. Almost like he misses him, which is - not what’s going on. At all. Obviously not.

He pushes it away, concentrating again on his dad who’s still rambling about the plight of the Hales and how it’s a damned shame about it all. After a while he appears to cotton on that Stiles isn’t really (outwardly) engaged in the topic, and comes back full circle.

“So, what were you thinking about Lydia?”

“Her mom still won’t let me see her!” Stiles blurts angrily, throwing his hands up in pure annoyance. The sheriff leans forward and pulls Stiles’ bowl away just in time before Stiles bangs his fist down on the table in frustration. Sometimes Stiles wonders if his dad’s got a sixth sense, like animals sensing earthquakes before they happens and shit. Only in this scenario Stiles is the earthquake, which is both an apt and depressing comparison.

He’s pulled out of his own mental sidetrack by his dad’s tired question of “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

He glares venomously across the table, where the sheriff is holding up his hands like Stiles has just cornered him at gunpoint.

“It was all Theo, the fucking bastard! It’s his fault she’s catatonic, not mine. And it’s Mrs. Martin’s own fault that Lydia isn’t improving. Honestly! Putting her in Eichen House!”

He splutters and curses. The sheriff looks aghast, like someone just declared the world flat and Donald Trump the new President.

“I think I’m definitely missing some pieces to this puzzle,” he admits.

“I told you all this at the hospital!”

“I’m pretty sure my blood consisted of 87% morphine for days, forgive me if some details have escaped me. Please, fill me in! _Eichen house_? Really? That is troubling.”

Relieved to find a friendly ear Stiles goes on an epic ramble, recounting much of the events taking place just prior to, during, and after the sheriff was attacked. When he’s finished, mouth drier than the Gobi desert and his soul wrung out and deformed, his dad rises determinedly and wobbles towards his study. The door closes with a firm thud, and Stiles only makes out bits and pieces of what sounds like a very heated conversation. It’s still not enough to know who he’s talking to or about what, so Stiles makes himself useful by clearing away the bowls and tossing the stained table cloth in the wash.

“You can visit her after school today,” announces his dad with bravado as he exits the study.

“Really?”

“Yes, I had a talk with Natalie. She’s being very pig-headed, but I managed to twist her arm. It’s only a ten minute visit, so make the most of it, son.”

“I - .”

Stiles’ chest is warm, tight and so full of emotions he’s wholly unequipped to deal with right now. He settles for a bone-crushing hug.

“Thank you,” he mumbles into his dad’s collar. His dad doesn’t reply, but Stiles can feel him smiling.

 

 

**~**

 

Derek is hiding.

It’s cowardly, childish, and he doesn’t even care. It’s either this or risk losing his control, and he’s been too close to that line too many times in his short life to wanna risk it. So by hiding, he’s basically preserving his own sanity, while also keeping others out of harms way. It's perfectly logical. Mostly. Or at least to him. Whatever.

It’s just a pity he’s surrounded by a pack of werewolves with enhanced scent and hearing. Hide and seek was never all that fun as a kid. It’s not much easier as an adult.

“There you are.”

Case in point. He’s already busted, and it’s only been twenty minutes since he stalked out of the house. Derek groans and tries to scurry deeper into the shadows in the barn where he’s sought refuge. It’s a futile endeavor. Werewolf sight is just as good in the dark.

Cora stops right in front of him, arms crossed. She’s staring down on him, expression caught between annoyance and worry. Derek’s sitting with his back propped against the wall, knees almost tucked under his chin, arms draped around them. It’s a defensive pose, and her expression soon transforms into full-fledged concern.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, all traces of ridicule purged from her voice. She sinks down in front of him in a mostly graceful manner, mimicking his position. Derek stares at his hands, determined not to look at her.

Cora lays a tentative hand on his knees, leaning forwards slightly, trying to catch his eye.

“Derek, come on. You can tell me.”

“Please, Cora. Just -.”

He stops mid-sentence, without a clue to what he was going to say. How is he supposed to explain this to her? Cora might be years younger, and still a teenager and yet she's got her life so much more together than Derek ever will. 

“Just leave me alone, please.”

“Come on, Derek. You don’t want to hide out here all night,” she coaxes. “It’s a full moon tonight. They’re pulling out all the stops. Food, drink, music. You’d love the run we usually go on. It ends up on this bluff overlooking the whole valley. It’s spectacular. You can run as a wolf, too if you want. You’d be the talk of the pack. Besides, I still haven’t seen the full wolf shift. None of us have.”

Derek visibly recoils at the thought, wrenching out of Cora’s grip.

“Okay,” she says hesitantly. “Now I’m officially starting to worry. Did something happen? Was it the Twisted Sisters? If so, I’ll deal with them. I know they can be a right terror -.”

“It’s not them.”

Derek cringes at the sound of his own voice. He sounds fifteen again. Frightened, vulnerable, gullible. Uncontrollable.

“No? You sure?”

Derek nods his head. “They’ve got nothing to do with, you know - _this_.”

His smile is strained. Cora doesn’t return it. Simply stares, like she can see into his soul. Derek dearly hopes that isn’t the case.

“But, if you can get them to back off, that would be awesome,” he adds with a shudder. “I found Sofia in my bed last night. Very uninvited. Very naked.”

Cora rolls her eyes and curses in Spanish.

“I’ll have a talk with their mom. Honestly, that’s not the way to go about things. She’s not the brightest of the pack,” she adds with a wink. “Great body, though. So, you turned that down, huh?” She nods, eyes wide open like it’s the most incredible thing she’s heard all year. “I’m impressed. You’ve got more self-control than most.”

Derek snorts despite it all. Cora couldn’t be further from the truth. If there’s one thing he’s always struggled with, it’s control. Which is why he shies away from temptations as much as possible. Beautiful as she is, Sofia hadn't tempted him, though. Oddly enough. Derek's not in the right headspace to even contemplate why that might be. 

“No wonder she looked glum at lunch. Sofia’s not accustomed to rejections. I think that was her first.”

Derek just shrugs, nothing else to add to the subject. Sofia’s hot as hell, sure. But she’s about as interesting as a slug.

“So,” says Cora, dragging out the o while waggling her eyebrows. She looks slightly deranged. She _is_ slightly deranged. Derek has come to learn this after just a few days spent with her out here. She’s crazy in a good way, though. Impulsive, but not reckless. Fun, but not over the top. Loving, but not suffocating. She’s - _balanced_. Derek is envious.

“Can I count you in on the run tonight? There’s usually some play-wrestling, too. I bet you can take most of them.”

Derek shakes his head violently. “No,” he rasps. “No running, no wrestling.”

“Why not?”

Cora doesn’t sound angry, just confused. As if the idea of turning this offer down is alien to her.

“I don’t like it, alright. I never did.”

“Oh.”

There’s a prolonged silence. Derek can hear the sounds of the horses on the other end of the barn. Back by the house, Alejandro is barking out instructions in rapid Spanish, preparing for tonight’s events. Someone’s just dropped a stack of plates. Agustina is not impressed.

“Okay.”

Derek is startled at Cora’s simple word.

“Oh,” he says, echoing her reaction. Cora smiles sadly, head cocked.

“No one will force you, and we’ll respect your wishes.”

“Thanks.”

Cora shifts around so that she’s on her knees, moving so close Derek can clearly see the mesmerizing mosaic of her eyes. Her hands fall on his knees again, and she leans forward and kisses his forehead tenderly. In that moment she looks so like Laura, Derek can hardly breathe.

“I can’t begin to fathom what you’ve been through,” she whispers softly. “I do hope a day will come when you’ll start to trust yourself again. Whatever's got you spooked, you can fight it.”

 _No, I can’t,_ Derek thinks angrily, feeling the familiar dark knot in his chest pinch like a painful reminder. You can’t fight who you are.

“What are you afraid of?”

Cora asks a simple question with a complicated answer. A familiar set of images flashes before Derek’s eyes. Kate. The fire. His role in it. His weak control. How he almost mauled Laura more than once as kids. His anger. Paige. Jennifer. His gullible heart. His lacking judge of character. His tendency to fall for the wrong people with devastating results… Stiles.

The last one is new entry, and startles him. Stiles. It’s true Derek’s had a lot of feelings about Stiles since he literally stumbled into his life. Anger. Annoyance. Awe. Gratitude. Trust. Worry. And new, fresh on the list - _fear_. He doesn’t get it, and that scares him even more. In short - Derek’s worst fear is himself. Which again means his fear is impossible to run from and practically unfixable.

In the end, he keeps all of this to himself. Simply shrugs at Cora’s question, causing her to sigh.

“Someday I hope you'll confide in someone. I'm always there if you need me," she says warmly. Derek appreciates the offer beyond words. He settles for squeezing her hand, hoping it conveys at least a shred of the gratitude and love he feels for her.

"I’ll bring you some food,” she finally says. Derek nods, watching her disappear out the door.

Derek tunes out both the sounds of preparations and the animals, doing his best to empty his mind. It works for a little while. Then someone, probably one of the kids, lets off a fire cracker and he’s startled out of his trance. After that he’s fitful and skittish, the pull of the moon starting to affect him.

Cora brings a basket full of all kinds of delicious smelling food, but Derek’s not hungry yet. Instead, he finds a piece of wood and starts to carve it with his claws. He has no idea what he’s making, if anything at all, but the movements and effort soothes him.

Long after the sun has set, and well after the festivities have begun, bathed in moonlight, his phone buzzes his pocket. Without even looking, Derek knows it’s Stiles.

**Wazzup?**

Derek rolls his eyes. The text is ridiculous, and yet tells him way more than he suspects Stiles is aware of. He’s usually very to the point, except when he’s antsy about something. That 'something' is usually reckless, stupid or both.

 _What did you do?_ he sends back smugly, and yep, seconds later a reply ticks in.

**Whadda you mean? I didn’t do nuthin.**

_Yeah you did. Spill._

**Bye**

_Stiles…_

**So, I possibly maybe kinda stole a keycard.**

Derek’s not even surprised. Stiles is all about doing the right thing, but isn’t adverse to skirting the laws to achieve it.

_Why and what for_

**Eichen house. We’re busting Lydia out. Maybe**

_Maybe?_

There’s a minute’s wait for the reply, which is so telling Derek’s not even surprised when the text finally arrives.

**The plan is terrible. High risk of failure.**

_Ah, another mission impossible. I suggest you drop it_

**Yeah, not happening. Wish me luck!**

And just like that Derek’s got a whole new thing to be worried about. No wonder Stiles is on his list of things that scares him.

 

 

**~**

 

 

It’s been an intense night.

No, scratch that. It’s been an _insane_ night. A gut-churning, horror-inducing, almost-getting-killed kind of night. Which, come to think of it isn’t so rare, really. More like - Tuesday.

Stiles is pacing his room, up and down in the space between his bed and the desk. It’s the crack of dawn, he has school in less than two hours, he stinks of a combination of sweat and fecal matter and could definitely benefit from a shower. It’s just, he’s too wired. Too pumped up. Too full of adrenaline. God, he’s high on it all! On the danger, almost losing Lydia. Saving her.

He can still hear her words ring inside his head, like a joyous chorus on endless repeat.

_“Stiles saved me.”_

Lydia had said that. Had declared the operation of getting her out of Eichen House a success because of him. Stiles. In front of her mother, no less. A woman who’d done nothing but blame him, scowl and make him feel like a dung beetle every time they were in the same room. Stiles can’t help it. Part of him feels a vindictive glee. He doubts Natalie Martin will ever throw him a parade or hug him tightly, but she’s now forced to at least tolerate him. Definitely a win.

The door to his bedroom creaks open, revealing a bleary-eyed sheriff.

“Son, you’ve got to stop with the pacing,” he rasps, squinting at the alarm clock. “Dear lord. You have school soon. I have to be at work in an hour. Need I remind you I’m an old man with a recent injury. I need my rest.”

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters, still pacing. He flails a little. Alright, a lot. “I’m just -”

“Strumming?” His dad snorts. “Yeah, I can tell. You did a good thing tonight, son. Totally reckless, of course. In violation of every state law known to man, nothing of which I can put in an official report, and there are bodies to take care of. If I survive the rest of your high school career, I’m retiring to Chicago to audition as a Cleaner for the mob.”

“Har har, very funny.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. It’s a little funny, but he’s not letting his dad know that. It might escalate, to like - dad jokes.

“Yeah, yeah I know. I won’t quit my day job. Take a shower, kid. You reek.”

He closes the door and Stiles hears him stumbling down the hallway back to his room, which is good. For a moment Stiles fears he’ll go downstairs to search of coffee. He’s a good cop, but not that good. Stiles has hid it well.

Several images from the night’s great escape catch up with him, and all of a sudden it hits him just how close they actually came to failure. It was a high stakes plan. Mission impossible kind of deal. That’s what Derek had called it. Stiles scoffs. Like he’s one to talk. He’s been prone to just barge in without even so much as a contour of a plan in place. Stiles at least had a plan A. It was a terrible plan, failed epically, and they got lucky, since plan B was non-existent. But Derek doesn’t need to know that. If he isn’t here to help, he can just shut his cake hole.

Stiles feels irrationally angry at Derek for a moment. Like a hot flash, scorching his mind, sending him into a panicked mini-rage. It disappears as fast as it arrived. Derek’s his own person and doesn’t owe them anything. In many ways, Stiles envies him. Most days the prospect of leaving Beacon Hills is an appealing notion. In rare moments of insanity Stiles even contemplates running away. Just packing a bag, throwing it in the Jeep and simply drive off into the sunset, or whatever cool protagonists do at the end of movies.

But he can’t do that. Not now. Maybe never.

He shakes it off, focusing back on the important part right now. Lydia. She’s safe. She’s out of Eichen. It was touch and go there for a moment. Stiles shudders to think what would’ve happened if Parrish hadn’t been there in all his hellhound glory to cushion the nuclear banshee scream, or if Deaton hadn’t manged to plug her brain-leak with some sort of yucky mistletoe paste.

It really was a group effort. Scott, Liam, Kira, Malia. Heck, even Theo and the zombie chimeras played a part despite their villainous bravado. They _all_ saved Lydia. Still, getting the praise for once… Stiles takes a deep breath, holds it in, and exhales slowly. He’s savoring the feeling of his guilty conscience feeling a little lighter. At least for tonight.

His dad is right. Helping others, saving lives, making amends. It helps. At least temporarily.

“MIECYSLAW STILINSKI!”

His dad’s bellow causes Stiles to jump in fright. Shit! He’s using his real name, so he definitely means business.

“STOP YOUR PACING THIS MOMENT! I SWEAR PLASTER IS FALLING OFF THE CEILING. GO SHOWER! NOW!”

“ALRIGHT!” he screams back, knowing perfectly well he’s in no shape to shower. He’ll probably drown, or slip on the wet tiles, dislocating his spine or whatnot. 

The pacing needs to stop, though, or his dad is liable to lock him in a cell at the station. Stiles is not too keen on that. Which is why he finds himself calling Derek. At an ungodly hour. Shit! Before he has the presence of mind to hang up, Derek answers with a bark.

“This better be good.”

His voice is gruff and languid, almost as if he’s too tired to properly form words. It’s adorable, and Stiles finds himself sitting on his bed, grinning like a lunatic.

“You’re grumpy in the mornings, aren’t you?” he sing-songs, foregoing any forms of polite greeting. Derek makes an indistinct sound on the other end. Stiles takes it as confirmation. “Besides, aren’t you in a time zone where it’s like mid-morning or something. Are you being a lazy-wolf?”

Derek produces a collection of letters and sounds that with some goodwill can be interpreted as a mangled sort of “fuck you”. It makes Stiles’ body thrum even more, albeit in a totally different manner. He’s too chicken-shit to stop and examine why.

“So, you’re alive. That’s something.”

Derek sounds - well, sleepy. But other than that Stiles can swear there’s a tinge of relief.

“I am indeed. Everyone’s alive. Well, not everyone,” he concedes with a shrug. “Valack bit the dust. Dude, it was kind of a like a Gus Fring moment. Half his face blew away. Lydia screamed it off.”

“You’re making even less sense than normally,” drawls Derek - no, wait. That’s a yawn. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Breaking Bad, Derek. Look it up, watch it, love it. If not, we can’t speak again.”

“Duly noted.”

Derek doesn’t sound like he’s making any note of it at all. In fact, it sounds as if he’s just burrowed deeper under his cover. His voice is muffled and drowsy.

"What's this about Lydia's scream?" mumbles Derek. "I've heard of someone talking people's ear off - you've potential, in case you didn't know. Is this a Breaking Bad thing, too?” Stiles laughs despite the somber topic.

“As it turns out banshee screams are like nuclear bombs. You know, volatile and deadly. Anyway, we got her out, but it was touch and go there for a while.”

Stiles then launches into a long-winded and way too detailed description of the epic mission, possibly exaggerating a fact or two, but it’s only for dramatic effect. Not to impress or anything. When he gets to the part where Lydia praised him for saving her, he notices that some of the elation is already wearing off. It’s a sobering discovery.

“Stiles?”

Derek sounds infinitely more awake now. Funny how that’s the total opposite of Stiles. Everything is about to catch up with him, the adrenaline is fading fast and he’s heading for a major crash, a total wipe-out.

“Hey, you still there? It’s not like you to be quiet for long stretches of time. I - Stiles. HEY!”

Stiles snaps out of it with a soft yelp, then sinks into his bed, curling into a fetal position.

“God, it was so stupid,” he mutters, suddenly paralyzed by all the almosts and nearlys that so easily could’ve been fatal.

“You did it, though,” says Derek encouragingly. “Lydia’s safe. Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to _us_ ,” Stiles corrects. “It’s not like I waltzed in there and busted her out, Jason Bourne style. Please, tell me you at least get that reference.”

Stiles can practically feel how hard Derek rolls his eyes.

“I got that one,” he answers snidely. It’s silent for a few beats, then Derek asks “Tell me honestly - if you take your part out of the equation. If you remove all of your actions from last night - will that change the outcome?”

Stiles hasn’t thought of it like that. He quickly fast-forwards through the events, his interactions, his participation. When he’s back to the moment at Deaton’s, Lydia safe and thankful, he feels better.

“Thanks,” he mumbles into his phone. The relief isn’t as strong as it was before, but a piece of his dark guilt is a little bit lighter. Like the pitch dark night is giving way for a small patch of foggy shoreline. In time, perhaps he’ll be able to make out the full sunrise.

“Now,” says Derek, using that slightly condescending and unfailingly commandeering tone Stiles remembers from his short stint as alpha. “Get your butt to school.”

“I’m thinking of awarding myself a sick day.”

“Take a shower, get to school.”

“You’re so cookie-cutter, it’s giving me cavities,” complains Stiles, but he’s already halfway to the bathroom. He does stink. There’s no way around a shower. If he lays down on the bed like this, he’ll probably burn a hole through the sheets with his sharply pungent odor.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“But I wanna hear about Chile,” Stiles whines.

“I’ll tell you later. I’ve got to get up anyway. Cora is taking me hiking.”

That sounds - nice. There’s never time for hikes around here. Stiles has never missed it, or wanted to go hiking for that matter. But somehow, now, it sounds awesome.

“Send me a picture,” he blurts, feeling his cheeks blossom into spectacular shades of crimson. “From your hike, I mean. I know nothing about Chile. Educate me, bitch!”

“Sometimes I’m convinced you’ve got Tourette's,” says Derek dead-pan. Stiles huffs.

“I just Jesse Pinkman’d you, and you’re clueless to the fact. Once again, _Breaking Bad_. Watch it, and I’ll swear you’ll get the ‘bitch’ reference. It’s a pop cultural thing,” he adds in a sickly sweet tone that he knows from years of torturing Scott, works wonders to rile and annoy.

“I’ll think about it,” drawls Derek, voice Rhett Butler velvety and annoyingly bored.

“STILES!”

“Shit!” Stiles freezes as his dad’s pissed off voice carries down the hallway.

“Someone’s in trouble,” sing-songs Derek. Stiles chews his lower lip not to curse, both at his dad and Derek.

“MIECZYSLAW!”

“What was that?”

Derek’s voice is annoyingly mirthful. Stiles gives up and curses out loud.

“Dad sneezed,” he lies desperately. “He’s getting a terrible cold. Drawback of surgery and all that. Reduced immune system. Bacteria magnet.”

“Sure. Whatever, it sounds serious. Now, go. I’m hanging up.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah right. You’re not that ru-.”

He stops mid-word, stares at his phone in shock for a whole minute. The fucker actually hung up!

His dad screams for him a third time, including his middle name, which does not bode well. Yeah, definitely time to get a move on.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An abundance of Hale bonding and feels.

“Wow!”

The view really is spectacular. Breathtaking even. Cora hadn’t been kidding about that. Derek stares out over the luscious green valley below them, stretching on for miles and miles. In the distance, the ocean blinks like sparkling sapphires.

“Incredible, isn’t it?”

Cora steps up beside him, grinning widely. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, her nose sprinkled with freckles. She looks impossibly happy, healthy and well, beautiful. Derek drinks in the sight of her. It’s a sight he not long ago never thought he’d see again. But here she is. The perfect blend of everything he’s lost. The same dark, wavy hair as their mother. Their dad’s eyes. Grandma Corine’s nose. Laura’s straight-forwardness. And still, she’s so much more than that, and Derek is thankful for this opportunity to get to know her.

“Yeah, it is,” he concedes, thinking it applies just as much to her as the view.

“This is my favorite spot,” Cora admits shyly. “I - .” She shuffles the ground with her boot, sending up a small cloud of dust. “I sometimes need to be by myself, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I love being here, staying with the Silva pack. It’s just -.”

She takes a deep breath, swallowing thickly. Derek thinks he knows what she’s getting at, but allows for Cora to find the words herself in her own time.

“Sometimes it overwhelms me. The tiniest thing can set it off. A smell. A turn of phrase. A song on the radio. It will trigger a memory and I’m overcome with this intense sorrow. I know they understand, or no. That’s not the right word. They're empathetic, but they don’t understand. Unless you’ve experienced loss lie we have, you can’t really get it. In those instances I just have to get away, you know.”

Derek does know. He nods, grabs her hand and simply squeezes it in what he hopes is a comforting manner. He’s not good at his. In fact, he’s terrible. But he wants to learn. And he’s trying.

“I’m starving!”

Cora whirls around, letting go of Derek’s hand in the process. She makes a beeline for the backpack she’s dropped in a heap a few yards back.

“Are you hungry?”

Derek shrugs. “I can eat.”

They build a campfire and roast hotdogs and marshmallows. It’s incredibly nice in a way Derek can’t remember the last time he experienced. Cora babbles on and on about life with the pack, what a softie Alejandro is, how strict his wife can be, and many embarrassing stories about the Twisted Sisters. She’s an amazing storyteller, knows exactly how much detail to include, how to vary her voice, milk the punchline, or add odd twists Derek doesn’t see coming. For some reason Derek’s reminded of Stiles. Not that they ever sat by a fire, telling each other scary stories or any stories for that matter, but he imagines this is something Stiles would both enjoy and be good at. He’s got a way with words, unlike Derek who’s scared of them more often than not.

“This is nice,” he admits later, as the sun is starting to droop on the sky and the shadows are getting longer. Cora is sprawled out on the ground, her head popped up by her backpack, flicking grapes up in to the air and catching them effortlessly with her mouth.

“Yeah,” she nods. “It is.”

They’re silent for a little while. Derek can hear the sounds of the forest around them. They’re different than the ones he’s used to from Beacon Hills, but still familiar enough that he feels a pang in his chest. Oddly enough he misses it. The Preserve. He’s just not sure if he misses it like it used to be when he was a kid, or the way it is now with all the hoopla going on there. The answer should be given, and it confuses him that it’s not.

“Tell me about them,” says Cora suddenly, voice uncharacteristically soft.

“What? Who?”

Once again, Derek’s mind drags him in two wildly different directions, one linked to his past, and another linked to-? Well, also his past, if he’s being technical about it. He left Beacon Hills, with no clear plan of returning, so it’s not like it’s his future. Right?

“Our family. Laura. Mom. Dad.”

Cora gives him a tentative look, like she’s afraid she’s asking too much. Derek feels a pang of guilt, but oddly enough it’s not connected to the fire and his part in that. Instead, it’s guilt over Cora. Of how he’s neglected her, even after learning she’s alive. In all his voes and misery, her sorrow and loss has been pushed out of his mind. She was just a kid when it all happened, and has been alone with it ever since.

“I - sometimes I get so frustrated, you know,” she whispers into her hands. “I’ll wake up, and just know that I’ve dreamed about them, but just fragments stay with me. I feel like that about a lot of things. Sometimes I don’t even know if what I remember is a real memory or just figments from my dreams.”

Derek’s heart does a complicated set of skips. Cora surely must notice, but she doesn’t comment. Simply waits, holding her breath.

“What do you want to hear about?” Derek finally asks, amazed that his voice comes of somewhat strong, and not breaking like his heart.

“Anything,” she breathes. “Everything.”

He loses time after that. It starts off hesitantly and jerky, but soon words begin to flow out of him, encouraged by Cora’s smiles, little laughs and the way they make him feel. Warm. It’s such an unfamiliar sensation, talking like this. So freely. Ever since the fire, he’s been even more withdrawn and introvert than he was as a kid. Even around Laura, he hardly ever let his guard down, too scared something might accidentally leak out, linking him to what happened. Linking him to Kate. To the fire. In fact, the only one who’s managed to weasel any amount of words out of him lately, is strangely enough Stiles.

Funny, how everything somehow always ends up with Stiles.

“How was living with Laura?”

The questions startles Derek.

“What do you mean?”

Cora shrugs. “I dunno. It’s, you know. Odd, thinking about just the two of you. Together. Co-existing. You were always so different as kids. Laura was always goading you, you were always trying to hide or ignore her.”

“You noticed that?”

Cora had just been a kid. How could she know?

She snorts. “Everyone noticed that. I was almost ten when the fire happened. Ten-year olds are pretty damned perceptive, I’ll have you know.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I guess we tended to - .”

“Ignore me? Yeah, you did.”

In the back of Derek’s mind Laura is tutting. He vaguely wonders when she became the embodiment of his conscience. He suspects it might coincide with her being murdered and chopped in two.

“So?” Cora’s face is radiating curiosity. There’s no trace of anger, for some reason. Derek suspects he’d been much more bitter if the roles were reversed. At least Derek got a few years with a family member after the fire. Cora lost everyone.

“It was -.”

Derek struggles to find the words, and for a moment he’s transported back to their shitty apartment in New York.

 

_____________________

“Derek? You miserable fuck, is that you? Take off your shoes if you value your life.”

Derek rolls his eyes, toeing off his shoes. Laura was a horrible mess as a kid, leaving her possessions all over the house. Now, as an adult, she’s weirdly anal about everything being in it’s proper place. Derek suspects it’s a way for her to maintain control. To cling to the things she own, scared they might disappear if she takes her eyes off them. It’s a long way from the teenage menace that trailed mud everywhere and needed to be threatened with hoses to take her shoes off, to this version who throws a tantrum if she sees so much a sole inside the living room. Just as well, Derek thinks, looking down at his black sneakers. They’re soaked through and muddy. It’s not like he wants to wear them inside anyway.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he replies in his usual monotone growl. Laura’s face appears in the doorway, a scowl on her pretty face.

“Did you buy the 2 percent milk?”

She makes grabby motions for the bag, and Derek hands it over without ceremony.

“Of course,” he mutters, trailing after her. “I want to live to see another day.”

“Har har. You’re not amusing, you know that, right?”

“Of course not, not a funny bone in this body.”

“Damn straight.”

Laura empties the bag on the counter, making a pleased keening sound as she spots the milk. Derek swiftly puts the other groceries away, watching with narrow eyes as Laura makes herself a generous bowl of cereal.

“What?” she barks out between spoonfuls, eyebrow arched challenging.

“You’re upset.”

It’s not a question. Laura never eats cereal, unless she’s upset. It’s her comfort food of choice, and Derek hasn’t seen her prepare a bowl in more than two years. It’s a show of weakness, or at least Laura thinks so. The fact that she’s not only eating it, but asking Derek to help her get the ingredients, is worrying.

Laura shrugs, and moves into the living room. Their apartment is small, in dire need of a paint job, but still cozy. Laura’s the interior decorator. Derek just helps save up the money needed for lamps, rugs and the like.

They used to be wildly different, polar opposites and always in some sort of conflict as kids. Now, they’re weirdly in sync about everything. They work together seamlessly, Derek forced to be minimally more social working at a bar in periods when there’s not much construction work, Laura much more subdued since her job at the bakery down the street demands concentration and focus.

Ever since the fire, it’s as if all their differences went up in flames with it, along with their joy for life. Derek realizes it’s not ideal, but for the time being it’s better than nothing. They’re both still healing. Or he hopes Laura is. He’ll never get over the guilt, that much he knows. In all the time that’s passed since it happened, they’ve never really talked about it. The whys, the hows or the whats. In a sense, it’s like they’re living with a third entity, someone who takes up a lot of space, but they can’t talk to. It controls their routines, and they allow it. In a way Derek thinks they need it. It defines them now. Without it, he’s not sure they could even go on living.

Laura curls up on the sofa, dragging an afghan over her lap, continuing to devour the cereal. Derek feels the knot in his stomach grow like an out of control tumor.

“Laura,” he begins hesitantly, coming to a halt in front of her. “You’re starting to scare me. What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I got a letter today.”

A thousand scenarios flash before Derek’s mind. A long lost will and testament? A note from Kate explaining what he did? An eviction notice? A warrant for his arrest?

“A letter about what?” he asks, breath bated.

“A letter about Beacon Hills,” she says, voice oddly flat. “Someone’s killing deer in the preserve.”

Deer? Derek breathes a sigh of relief. That’s - anti-climatic. In the best way, of course.

“Someone’s painting spirals on them.” Laura looks at him, eyes wide and worried. “You know, the kind of spiral that signifies vendetta. Revenge.”

What the - ?

“I don’t get it?”

He really doesn’t. What’s that got to do with anything. With them?

Laura’s eyes flash red. Unable to resist, Derek quickly bows his head, and sits down. Laura almost never does that. Use her alpha power to get him to fall in line. She used to want to be alpha. Always bragged about it, taunted him since he wasn’t the natural successor. Derek never wanted it, and let her keep it up. Now however, Laura hates it with a passion. Derek can still remember the first time she saw them. The red eyes burning back at her in the mirror. She broke every reflective surface she could find, cursing and ranting. She wanted to be alpha, yes, but never like this. Never at the expense of their entire family.

“I have to go check it out,” she says, voice firm. Derek notices the bowl is empty. Like she’s eaten herself strong enough to do this. “It’s a werewolf symbol, Derek. It’s our territory. If someone’s challenging it, or if it’s someone from our family coming for revenge -.”

She swallows thickly. That was their hope once. That some long lost family member would turn up and take them in. Or that, miraculously, someone had survived. Someone not comatose and invalid, like poor Peter.

“I need to go.”

“I’ll come with you.”

The words sting. It’s like throwing up barbed wire, leaving his insides shredded and bleeding. Laura shakes her head.

“No. It’s probably nothing anyway. It’ll be silly to waste money on two tickets, for what’s probably just kids playing tricks. Or something.”

Derek nods, relieved beyond words.

Laura leaves the next day. A week later Derek finds one half of her body abandoned in the woods, cut clean in two with a hunter’s broad sword. Once again Derek has escaped tragedy with his life intact, feeling if possible even more guilty than before.

____________________

 

  
“It was what?”

Cora’s still waiting for an answer. Derek shakes out of his reverie, smiling sadly.

“The fire changed everything. Including our relationship. It’s like it burned away all our differences. Sounds silly, but we only had each other after that. Seemed stupid to bicker about shit, I guess.”

Cora nods. “Makes sense,” she says, eyes downcast. “I wish I’d been there with you.”

Something inside Derek breaks. It feels like it’s a dam of repressed feelings. The current of these feelings transport him, quite literally to Cora’s side, engulfing her in a hug so fierce, it would probably kill a normal human. Cora isn’t normal, though. Or human. But she’s his sister, and he loves her, and wants to know her better. Really know her, in a way him and Laura never allowed for each other.

They stay like that for a really long time. Or at least Derek thinks it’s a long time. He’s not wearing a watch, but the sun sets completely, the only source of light the fire. They hadn’t planned on staying the night out here, but it’s pretty obvious that’s what they’ll end up doing. They gather more wood for the fire, and Derek shifts into his wolf form for the first time since Mexico, and comes back with a few fat rabbits that they end up roasting, eating with their hands, all greasy and barbaric. Cora is more excited about his wolf form than the food, and insists on petting him for a long time. Derek doesn’t mind at all.

“Do you think about going back?”

Cora’s voice carries through the darkness. They’re both full and sprawled out on opposite sides of the fire. Derek can only see her face now and then, between the dancing flames.

“To Beacon Hills, I mean,” she clarifies.

It’s a valid question. It’s also a question Derek’s doing his absolute best to avoid.

“I don’t know,” he says eventually.

“We have land there,” Cora muses. “We also have more than enough money to like, rebuild the house. If we wanted to.”

“Is that something you’d want?”

Derek honestly hadn’t thought Cora was even vaguely interested. It looks like she’s shrugging, but it’s hard to tell.

“Maybe,” she admits. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. There are a lot of good reasons for me to stay.”

Derek coughs “Jesus” and Cora shoots him a dark look. She doesn’t deny it, though. Not that she could if she wanted to. Derek had caught them making out - enthusiastically at that - behind the same barn he hid in during the full moon.

“Still, I think about it a lot, you know. Home. I - I kind of miss it.”

_Home._

It’s been a long time since Derek had considered Beacon Hills home. It certainly hadn’t felt like that when he came back after Laura’s death, and with the house gone, his failed attempt at building a pack a thing of the past, and all the other shit, it was silly to even consider it.

And yet…

“I know you miss it, too.”

Derek’s face snaps in Cora’s direction. “Really?” he says, voice dripping sarcasm.

“Really. I know you worry about them. I know that you talk to Stiles on a regular basis, crazy as that sounds. You two used to bicker a lot, as I recall.”

Derek’s face heats, but that’s probably because of the proximity to the fire.

“And how do you know that? That we stay in touch,” he asks instead, cringing at the shrillness of his voice.

“Lydia,” says Cora simply. “I told you we keep in touch. I hear Stiles saved her from Eichen House. Quite the little hero.”

Derek makes a non-committal sound. He knows this, of course. For some reason it irks him to think of Stiles as Lydia’s little hero. Stiles is probably pleased, though. Being the knight surely earns him some brownie points with her. He always did have a stupid crush on Lydia as he recalls.

“He saved me, too.” Cora’s voice is small and soft. “Did he ever tell you that?”

Derek’s head snaps up, staring at her through the flames, confused.

“What are you talking about?”

She giggles softly. “He didn’t, huh? I’m not really surprised. He comes off as all bluster, I guess, but he’s more the quiet hero than any of them.”

“What are you talking about?” repeats Derek like an idiot, but for some reason he can’t seem to find any other words. His brain is oddly fried.

“In the ambulance,” Cora says simply, like that explains it all. It doesn’t. Derek growls low under his breath.

“Patience,” she chides playfully. “It was when I was sick, or poisoned, I guess. With mistletoe. You put me in that ambulance, with Stiles, while you lot ran off to fight the alpha pack.”

“What else was I supposed to do? Let you die in a heap on the floor while we fought? Let him get himself killed? Running around with that stupid bat, I swear to god -”

“Calm your temper, bro.” Cora’s sitting up now, smiling at him, eyes twinkling with merriment. “I know why you put us there, that’s not the point, which I’m getting to. I was really sick. More or less passed out at that point, but floating in and out of it, like I was trapped in a fog. At one point I drifted off, then came crashing back with a violent lurch. And there he was, all scared, pale and babbling on and on like a lunatic.”

“He always babbles like a lunatic,” mumbles Derek. Cora rolls her eyes.

“I stopped breathing, Derek. Stiles saved me, with freaking CPR. And he never once gloated about it. Just sat there, blurting out his worst fears, thinking I was still knocked out. I -.”

She takes a deep breath, sighs, and meets his eyes, strangely raw.

“He’s got the worst self-confidence in the world. You know that, right? He’s so scared of losing the people he cares about. That guy is so self-sacrificing it breaks my heart, and the worst part is, he hardly ever gets any credit for it. I’m glad Lydia told him so. Sure, the others were integral as well, but no one needs to hear that shit more than Stiles. Even before that business with the nogitsune, he was like that - throwing himself into danger without a thought for his own safety. And now. Now that he thinks he’s the cause of a lot of shit, he’s probably worse than ever. I worry about him.”

Derek’s chest pinches again. Painfully. Cora’s words ring horribly true. And that’s without factoring in the recent stuff with Donovan.

“He was a mess, you know. After Boyd, when you disappeared. He was scared you’d do something stupid. He came barging into the loft, demanding answers from Peter. From me. It was quite the display. No one else came, though. Not even Scott.”

She pauses, then blurts “Peter told him about Paige.”

Derek’s head whips up so fast, had he been human it would’ve snapped his spinal chord.

“He - _what_?”

Cora nods with a shrug. “Sorry. I know you probably didn’t want that story out. Not sure he totally believed it, though.”

“What do you mean? Stiles didn’t believe I had a girlfriend in high school?”

“No, silly. About what happened to Paige. I was a kid. No one told me anything about what really happened. All I know is that one moment you had a girlfriend, the next you didn’t, and your eyes were blue. Peter made it out to be this epic romantic story about you wanting to be with her forever, convincing Ennis to give her the bite.”

“He - _WHAT_?”

Derek’s eyes flash blue and his teeth and claws are out. He’s unable to keep his anger in, resulting in a long and very angry howl.

“So, not exactly true, then,” Cora comments dryly. Derek snarls.

“If it’s any consolation, Stiles didn’t believe him.”

Derek’s counting slowly to one billion in an effort to not fly back home, bust into Eichen and beat Peter to a bloody pulp. The nerve of him!! Cora’s words, whatever they might be, are not really registering.

“Derek,” she barks, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

“Oh, for the love of - . DEREK!!”

He’s only gotten to 97, and feels a second wave of anger build, this time for making him lose count.

“What?!”

“I said,” Cora repeats, over-enunciating every syllable. “Stiles didn’t believe him.”

Derek simply gapes. Them shuts his mouth, cocks his head and gapes some more.

“He didn’t?”

Cora shakes her head, then says “Nope,” popping the P with an obnoxious grin.

“You know, this conversation has been very illuminating. Many puzzle pieces have slotted into place. Lydia really is a genius. She called this months ago. I thought she was losing her marbles.”

Derek doesn’t even want to know what she’s talking about. He’s still having trouble coming to terms with Peter the snake and his lying tales, Stiles knowing about Paige and - he doesn’t really know what else. Only that it’s monumental, scary and he doesn’t want to think about it. He can probably hold it off a little bit longer. But it’s like lava simmering inside an unstable volcano. Eventually it will erupt.

“I’m tired,” he announces, rolling over with a huff. Cora snickers.

“Okay, big brother. Just take care not to drown while you’re floating down the Nile, alright.”

Derek doesn’t answer. Mainly because he’s not one for snappy comebacks. It has nothing to do with the array of confusing and conflicting feelings coursing through him. None at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's reading, commenting, subscribing and leaving kudos ♥ Know that I appreciate it all!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while. I have no other excuse except life. Also, slight confession: We've now reached the part where the canon storyline is abandoned. I've not yet seen any of season 6. Some of the elements moving forward are vaguely inspired by that, but we're officially in AU territory.

“I’ve made a life-altering decision!”

Stiles is grinning widely, leaning back in his swivel-chair staring at a grainy and slightly pixelated Derek Hale. He’s got an eyebrow arched high, eyes moving from side to side, up and down, like he’s not sure where to focus his attention. Skyping clearly isn’t something Derek does frequently. It’s downright adorable.

“I’m afraid to ask,” Derek replies dryly, adding that infuriating eye roll of his. Stiles tuts.

“You wound me,” he utters with a gasp, clutching a dramatic hand to his chest, a gesture more likely to be found in a Jane Austen adaptation than Beacon Hills. All he lacks is a cute bonnet. It would probably clash with the plaid, though.

“You’ll live,” replies Derek, eyes narrowed. “I heard something about you being stabbed in the chest with a shard of glass. How exactly did that go about?”

“In the heat of the moment, during one of my heroic escapades. The usual.”

“Don’t joke about that,” mutters Derek, tone surprisingly sombre. Stiles salutes him with a jaunty “Yes, sir” that ends in a wince. He’s got stitches and they’re actually quite painful.

“I swear to god, you’re a bigger threat to your own health than the supernatural community combined.”

Stiles pokes his tongue out, like a child. “You should team up with my dad, worrywart” he pouts. Derek shrugs.

“Where did you think I heard about this?”

“Traitor,” Stiles mutters darkly, but it’s all show and little venom. The idea of Derek and his dad conversing is, strangely enough, both terrifying and kinda - nice.

“So?” Derek throws his hands out, looking uncharacteristically impatient. Stiles has almost forgot what he’s waiting for.

“Oh, right. Yeah. So, I’ve made a very important decision.”

“So you said.”

“Career-wise.”

“Oh.”

Stiles huffs. “You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not. I haven’t even heard the specifics yet.”

Derek’s totally a liar that lies. His nose is twitching.

“Your nose just twitched!”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

Derek looks confused. Well, more confused than normal. Stiles tends to have that effect on people. It’s a gift.

“It means your totally lying. You - liar!”

“Lying about what? You’ve lost me.”

“You’re totally disappointed by my news, and lying about not being disappointed. Which you are! I’m very disappointed in you.”

“You’re very confusing, you know that right?”

“I’m also right!”

“That was not a denial.”

“Maybe not,” mutters Stiles through clenched teeth, “I admit I can be a tad - befuddling.”

“A tad?”

Dear lord! Stiles throws his hands up, cursing creatively.

“Do you wanna know or not? What I’m gonna be? Career-wise, I mean?”

“I already know, but sure.”

What the fuck? That sneaky bastard.

“Dad told you? I can’t believe he spilled the beans, that little rat - .”

“Stiles! STILES! Hey, calm down. Your dad didn’t say anything about that. It’s just obvious, okay. You’re going into law enforcement of some sort. Right?”

Stiles simply gapes.

“Am I wrong?”

Derek looks a bit unsure all of a sudden.

“Stiles, are you even breathing right now? Crap. You’re not moving. You’re never this still. Or is it this skype thing? Did my screen freeze? Cora is always complaining about how slow the connection is out here.”

Derek disappears from the screen, only to reappear seconds later, clutching his phone.

“I’m calling your dad.”

“NO!”

Stiles bursts into motion again, plastering his face against the screen, staring into Derek’s somewhat startled eyes. He’s out of focus, blurry and - Stiles doesn’t know what he is. Only that Derek’s surprised him again.

“Don’t call dad. He’s at work. I think. There’s a lot of shit to wrap up after everything. Better let him deal without interruptions.”

Derek puts the phone down, nodding.

“Honestly, though. How did you know?”

It’s a valid question. How could Derek know? Stiles hadn’t even known until like yesterday. Not really. Sure, he’s always been curious about his dad’s line of work, learning all he could about it. Memorizing the codes and listening in on the police scanner. But in his mind that was always justified as a means to keep tabs on him. To make sure his dad was safe. It never really occurred to Stiles that perhaps, at one point, it stopped being all about his dad and saving him, and more about Stiles and saving well, everyone.

It’s odd, really. How, in a moment, your entire perspective on life can change so fundamentally.

 

 

——————————-

Stiles is sitting in his dad’s office, mind still reeling, chest sore, body bruised. It’s over. For now. Part of him knows it’s only a matter of time before shit rolls into town again. But, for now. Everything is good. Sort of. Goodish. Good adjacent.

Better.

“You saved their lives. Mason. Malia. Half the population of Beacon Hills. That's got to feel pretty good.”

His dad’s voice is soft. Proud. Stiles’ squirms slightly, wringing his hands. He knows he’s right. Sort of. And yet, like always, his minds wants to downplay it. To give other’s all the credit. To simply shrink back in the shadows, content to know all his efforts, long hours, lack of sleep, paid off.

This time however, something is different. Or to be more precise, he’s different.

“It did,” he admits, hesitantly. Slowly he lifts his gaze, meets his dad’s.

“For a while.”

That’s the biggest problem, really. It felt good, yeah. Definitely did. But that feeling only lasted so long. There were collateral damage. Kira’s sacrifice. Theo’s demise. And that’s not taking into account all the property damage. The good feeling is dwindling fast, not strong enough to chase away the shadows darkening his soul. Not for good.

“But,” his dad says, nodding knowingly. “It's something you want to feel again.”

It’s not even phrased as question. Like he knows. In hindsight, he probably did. No wonder he’s let Stiles get away with so much over the years. A slight smile tugs at Stiles’ mouth. Then he nods, mind made up.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

It’s one of the few honest admissions about himself, his own wishes, he’s made in - well, years. It feels good. It also feels gut-churning and terrifying.

When his dad says “Welcome to your future career in law enforcement,” pride radiating from his eyes, Stiles feels a part of him slot into place. Connect. Fit.

———————————

 

 

He snaps out of the memory, turning his attention back to Derek’s grainy visage.

“How did you know?” he repeats, confused. Confusion is a common feeling for Stiles when it comes to Derek. That’s probably why Stiles can’t seem to help poke at him so much. He’s always been too curious for his own good, and unable to let things go when the answer’s not readily available. And Derek Hale might just be the greatest mystery of them all.

Derek simply shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, as if it’s something he’s never given much thought. Stiles flails, knocking over the ugly fist-shaped mug containing a myriad of pens, most of which has stopped working long ago.

“What kind of answer is that?” Stiles tears at his hair, letting out a manic laugh. “I didn’t even know! Not until like, yesterday.”

It’s funny how a grown, well-defined, and decidedly muscled werewolf can look so small. Derek’s adorable when he’s flustered, and this line of questioning clearly has him stumped.

“It always seemed, I guess, obvious?”

“How?”

Stiles is pacing. Okay, so he’s totally overreacting. Of course he is. Perhaps it is obvious? He’s the son of a sheriff, after all. Law enforcement do tend to run in families, that is true. Only, Stiles has spent a majority of his life getting in trouble, rather than abide laws. So he kind of fails to see the logic.

“You’re just the type, I guess,” says Derek hesitantly.

“I break laws daily!”

“For all the right reason, and only in an effort to help solve cases, put away the bad guys and save lives. Typical cop behavior.”

“Oh.”

Stiles dumps back down into his swivel-chair, miscalculating the distance and almost slides right off it and down on the floor. He manages to regain his balance, but his dignity is a lost case. Derek looks like he wants to laugh, but catches himself when Stiles is unable to hide a wince. Damned stitches!

He’s silent for a little while, staring at the pens scattered all over his carpet in a strange kind of fan formation.

“Anyway,” he says when the silence is threatening to inch into awkward territory. “I only realized that’s what I want to do yesterday. So it’s news to me, and kind of a big thing. Or so I thought.”

“It is. And congratulations,” Derek offers, scratching his beard awkwardly.

“Thanks.”

Stiles dives for a pile of forms stacked haphazardly on his desk, waving a few of them at the screen.

“Look, I already started researching different kinds of programs, schools and all that jazz, trying to find a path that appeals to me.”

He spins around, tilting the laptop slightly to the left so Derek has a direct line of sight to the big board previously used solely for supernatural shit. Now it’s littered with brochures, cut-outs, forms and pro/con lists in Stiles’ messy scrawl.

“Someone’s been busy,” Derek notes dryly.

“Make fun if you wish, but I’m kind of late to the party in many ways. I’ve applied to a bunch of colleges around the state without any clear idea of what I was going to study. Now that I do know, there’s not that much time left of school and I need to get as many applications in as I can. I’ve already sent one to this pre-FBI program in Washington that looks awesome -”

“Washington?”

Stiles nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I never really pictured myself crossing the country, but it really does look amazing, so it’s definitely on the list. You know, barring no other supernatural doomsday plots roll around to keep us trapped here forever.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want that,” mumbles Derek, his demeanor suddenly a bit more subdued. “Who wants to be stuck in Beacon Hills.”

“Right? Not you for one,” Stiles throws out, waving a pointing finger accusatory in Derek’s direction. “You left this place, and aren’t coming back, am I right? They even tore down the remnants of the burned house, so nothing left here for you, I guess. Give it a few more months and everyone you know will have left for college. Except dad, of course.”

Stiles rambles on for a good half hour, not really noticing that Derek’s grown silent. It’s not really all that unusually, after all. Stiles has always been the talker between the two. Finally, the topic is exhausted. So is Stiles, to be honest. It’s been a hectic couple of days. Weeks. Months. A lot has happened, and he’s definitely not done processing it all.

“How are you? Really?”

Derek’s question throws him. He wasn’t expecting that. Derek’s not usually the one to initiate this kind of topic. You know, the one involving feelings, and certainly never this directly. It feels monumental, somehow. Like they’d just leveled up.

Stiles takes a deep breath, shrugs and smiles sadly.

“Exhausted. Confused. Probably a bit traumatized. Injured. Both literally and figuratively.”

He bites his lower lip, tasting the words at the tip of his tongue.

“Still feeling guilty,” he admits, almost inaudibly.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“No.”

Derek’s face actually falls, like he’s hurt somehow. Rejected. Oddly, it makes Stiles heart beat faster.

“Oh, okay,” Derek says flatly. If he’d been here in the room with him, Stiles would’ve kicked him. For a seemingly bright dude, Derek can be quite daft at times. Stiles better spell it out for him.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s just too soon. Also, you weren’t here. You didn’t experience it like I did. Right now, everything somehow feels too raw to fully explain to someone who wasn’t part of it. You can get that, can’t you?”

Derek nods.

“One day I might be ready. When that day comes, I’ll gratefully accept the offer. Okay?”

Derek nods again. His expression is unreadable, but at least his eyebrows are behaving, which means he’s not angry at any rate.

“You know,” says Stiles, cocking his head, smiling crookedly. “That goes both ways, okay. If you ever want to, like talk about stuff. From your past, I mean. Stuff that I think we both know I know about already. Partially, at least.”

It might be the horrible resolution, but it looks like Derek’s blushing slightly. Stiles isn’t stupid enough to actually blurt out names. Not now. He’s kept the secrets of Kate, the fire, and Paige for a long time. He can keep them a bit longer. Forever, it that’s what Derek wants. Nothing about him suggests he’s the caring and sharing type. Still, it’s only polite to at least offer.

“I might take you up on that.”

Derek’s words take him aback. For a few moments they simply stare at each other, unblinkingly. The moment feels profound in a way Stiles can’t describe.

The spell is broken when his dad pokes his head in the door.

“Stiles, you need to get your butt down to the kitchen pronto! It looks like a war zone. I half expect to be assaulted by snipers and homemade dirt bombs when I step inside room. What on earth have you been up to all afternoon?”

The sheriff glares, clearly not noticing Derek’s face filling most of the screen on Stiles’ laptop, even if he’s gesturing wildly towards it, accompanied by a very whiny “Daaaad!”

“Sometimes I wish for the days when you were content to play in the mud. At least then your weird concoctions were all outside. Now I’m almost afraid to ask what you’ve been using my kitchen for.”

“Science experiment,” says Stiles, putting up his most innocent expression. It’s fooling no one. His dad looks one hundred percent done, and twenty percent apprehensive for good measure.

“Yeah, you’re gonna have to do better than that.” His arms are crossed, chin tilted high. “It smells like sulfur had a party, invited some questionable friends and then threw up all over the floor. _Science_ had nothing to do with that, son.”

Stiles flails, glancing at Derek who looks like he’s having trouble keeping a straight face.

“I’m waiting,” says his dad tersely. “Both for an explanation and your cleaning abilities.”

“Oh, alright!” snaps Stiles in frustration. “It’s - god, don’t freak out, okay.”

“Choose your words wisely,” advices his dad sternly. “You’re not off to a good start.”

“Crap,” Stiles breathes. “It’s not anything bad, okay. I’ve been doing some research, and Deaton gave me a bunch of herbs and shit to practice with. Look, I did a thing once. Or maybe twice. With mountain ash. I’ve been trying to figure out if it was just a fluke or something I can, you know, like master.”

His dad sighs, eyes traveling skyward as they often do when Stiles falls into another fad.

“Mountain ash?”

Stiles nods elaborately.

“I’m trying to break it,” he informs somewhat sheepishly, realizing how preposterous it sounds when he says it out loud.

“That’s easy enough, isn’t it? If you’re human, that is,” the sheriff adds, looking a bit bewildered. That soon gives way to pure terror.

“You are human, right?”

Stiles flails some more, knocking his desk lamp over, sending the room into semi-darkness as the light bulb flickers and dies on impact.

“What? Are you -? Obviously!”

His dad visibly exhales, then shrugs. “You never know with this town. Lydia didn’t use to be on the chessboard. Who’s to say you can’t make a cameo, too?”

Stiles bristles. “Come on, dad. I’m not a piece on a board, if anything I’m the player.”

“In that case we’re all doomed,” deadpans his dad. “I still don’t get why you need to practice breaking a mountain ash line.”

“With my mind, dad. Like, with telekinesis.”

“Like you did outside the rave? It just kind of - parted.”

Derek’s words take both Stilinskis by surprise. He’s been silent throughout their exchange, and frankly Stiles had almost forgotten he was still there. He quickly windmills across the room to get to the laptop, noticing with some dread how his dad’s face morphs from surprise to realization.

“Yeah, like that,” he says with a strained smile, tossing Derek a weak smile and a clipped wave before he unceremoniously ends the Skype session by slapping the laptop shut.

“Huh. Did I interrupt anything - _special_?”

His dad puts on that annoying face usually reserved for embarrassment and torture of his only son. It’s a foreboding sight, one which Stiles seeks to dismantle before it can drop whatever awkward bomb his dad is considering lighting the fuse on.

“Just my life,” he snarks, and instantly knows he’s chosen the wrong words. It’s like he just declared Derek his life - which makes it sound like something it’s not. Basically, he’s painted into a corner, trapped in a cul-de-sac without clear escape routes.

“Interesting.”

His dad nods, his head tilted slightly to the left which means - crap. Stiles cringes mentally. He’s putting together evidence. Not that there’s evidence to be found here, but still. The sheriff of Beacon Hills can spin the wildest tales when he’s in the right mood. Stiles didn’t inherit all his crazy theory traits from his mother.

“Not a direction I was expecting, but then again certain events, outbursts, choices, etcetera do make more sense when viewed in this light.”

“I have no clue what light you’re talking about,” says Stiles airily. “There is hardly any light here. I broke the lamp, see? By the way, did you want anything? Aside from my cleaning abilities.”

“Yes, dinner.”

“So, go make it. I’m not your maid.”

“Clearly not, if the state of the kitchen is any indication.” His dad’s crossing his arms, grinning evilly. “As for dinner, I was thinking pizza. Meat Lovers.”

“I was thinking no way in hell,” quips Stiles flatly.

“Pity. Oh well, in that case, perhaps we should head down to the kitchen, spend some time together making, let’s see - meatloaf. That’ll give us lots of quality family time. Room to really talk. Explore our deepest, most vulnerable feelings.”

Stiles panics, and dives for his phone.

“One Meat Lover pizza, coming right up.”

“Extra cheese,” dictates the sheriff gleefully. Stiles is already plotting how get away with murder.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

“There you are.”

Embarrassingly, Derek startles. Violently. Theoretically, that shouldn’t even be possible given his enhanced senses. Still, he does and curses angrily under his breath while Cora laughs softly somewhere behind him. She probably managed because she’s so ridiculously light on her feet, Derek reasons. In addition, he’s been lost his own head, and not even entertaining the thought of anyone else out here with him, least of all a creeping ninja wolf of a sister.

“Jesus,” he breathes and casts her a nasty glare. Cora pouts, though her eyes are crinkling.

“Don’t use the name of my boyfriend to express horror, brother dear. I might just get the expression you don’t like him much.”

“I don’t,” deadpans Derek, face blank. Cora snorts.

“Liar. Your nose just twitched. You adore him.”

Derek shakes his head, hiding a soft smile. Stiles had made the same observation about his twitching nose just the other day. Perhaps there's something to it.

“Not true,” he huffs, entirely unconvincingly. “He’s an idiot.”

“An idiot you like well enough to take out for drinks twice in the same amount of weeks. Forgive me if I don’t exactly take that as a sign of your brotherly hatred.”

“Whatever.”

Derek’s fresh out of witty comebacks. Not that he’s ever been fully stocked on those, even on good days. Why is it he only seems to surround himself with word-smiths and people who speaks the language of sarcasm fluently? He’s half convinced it’s all part of his atonement for sins past. His own personal purgatory of sorts.

“How did you know where to find me,” he asks instead, genuinely curios. He’s told no one about his plans this afternoon, and yet here Cora stands, in the flesh, looking entirely too unsurprised for his tastes.

She taps her nose and waggles her eyebrows, like that answers anything. “Followed your scent,” she says gleefully, spinning slowly on the spot taking in the room. “Nice,” she adds approvingly. Derek secretly agrees.

“We’re miles from the farm. Your scent is not that good.”

Cora shrugs mysteriously, apparently too occupied with inspecting the bay windows to answer. Derek feels the telltale stirrings of something he’d forgotten all about - sibling annoyance.

“Cora,” he grumbles warningly. She laughs and tosses her hair over her shoulder, and in that moment she looks so much like Laura it catches his breath.

“Sorry,” she smiles, “You’re so easy to annoy, I can’t help myself. If you must know, I stopped by the construction site. Alonso said you’d asked to leave an hour early. He pointed me in the direction you drove off, and I picked up your scent a while after. I suspect it was just dumb luck.”

Dumb luck. Derek mentally scoffs. That’s a concept he’s entirely unfamiliar with. If there’s one thing he hasn’t been blessed with throughout the years, it’s luck, dumb or not.

Cora walks over to the sizable dining table. It’s old, probably homemade and has that well-lived, well-used look to it. She picks up the brochure he dropped there when he arrived and arches an eyebrow.

“Pricey,” she comments. “Oh, wow. Lots of land, though.”

She doesn’t say anything else, simply wanders off into the kitchen, and potters around there for a while. Derek can hear cupboards opening and closing, before she moves on to the second floor. Derek’s already been up there, so he doesn’t follow. Instead, he just stands there in the middle of the living room, mentally preparing for the questions he knows are coming. Cora returns a few minutes later, smiling warmly.

“It’s really nice, Derek. I like it.”

Derek breathes a sigh of relief, which honestly surprises him. He’s so used to being on his own, not really depending on anyone’s opinions or advice, but somehow, subconsciously, Cora’s approval is something he wants. Something he needs.

He doesn’t say anything, though. The words seem to stick in his mouth, but he manages a small smile. Cora shakes her head, muttering “doofus”, but it sounds affectionate and not exasperated, so Derek counts it as a win.

His sister wanders out onto the patio and sinks down onto the porch swing. It needs a stroke of paint and the chains creak, but it’s almost exactly like the one they had at the house, which means Derek loves it fiercely. He trails out after her, leaning casually against the porch rails. It needs some paint too, he notices. Everything does. It’s gonna take forever.

“So,” says Cora eventually. “You’ve made up your mind, then? You’re staying here? Permanently?”

Derek shrugs. It seems like the logical thing to do. He’ll be close to Cora, which he’s come to realize he honestly wants. The idea of leaving her again is less than desirable. 

“Well, that’s comforting,” drawls Cora, rolling her eyes. “A shrug? That’s all you can manage? Derek, this is your future we’re talking about. Buying a freaking house - no scratch that, a god damned _ranch_ , isn’t the sort of thing you decides on a whim. Or with a shrug.”

“You don’t want me around, is that it?”

It’s not meant to come out as defensively as it sounds, and he regrets it immediately. His sister sighs in exasperation, like he’s a toddler being impossible.

“I realize you’ve lost more than most, so I’m gonna let that one slide. Just because I’m questioning your choices, doesn’t mean I’m rejecting you. Or disrespecting your wishes. But you’ve got to admit, this -” she gestures wildly towards the large expanse of land before them, “this feels a little bit impulsive. Property purchases are usually something you contemplate, discuss with people, and then go on weeks and weeks of showings before you reach a decision. You’re sneaking off after work without a word to anyone.”

She smiles sadly, the swing going back and forth in a comforting motion. Almost hypnotizing.

“Don’t get me wrong, Derek. I want you around. We’ve been apart almost as much as we’ve been together, and I get the need to stay close. We’re family. We’re pack. Still, this feels a bit like you’re hiding. Just the manner of which you're going about things, all cloak and dagger. Like you know someone could easily talk you out of it.”

She doesn't elaborate on what she means by 'someone', but Derek's traitorous mind takes him places he's not entirely comfortable with.

“It was meant to be a surprise,” he mutters, knowing perfectly well that Cora can hear the uptick of his heartbeat suggesting this isn’t entirely true.

“And yet, somehow, I’m not,” she whispers, face more serious than Derek can remember seeing her. “Surprised, that is. This place is beautiful. The house is perfect, but Derek. It’s tucked away in the middle of nowhere. I’ll definitely be closer than Beacon Hills, but honestly this isn’t living. You'd be alone out here, me visiting twice a week - that’s barely existing. Derek, haven't you done that enough? Isn't time to start living instead?”

Derek clenches his fists, feels claws bore into skin and smells the coppery scent of blood. He’s angry. Trouble is, he’s not sure if he’s angry at Cora for not understanding, or for understanding too well. Words fail him, but what else is new, so instead he simply marches back into the house, shutting the door behind him with a bang. Cora doesn’t follow him.

Derek paces the living room for a long time. Slowly the agitation leaves his body, and when it does he feels wrung out and tired. He slumps down in the plastic covered sofa, mind blank and unsure what to do now. As if she can sense his mood shifting, Cora walks back in and sits down in an uncomfortable looking armchair. For a few minutes they don’t speak, simply staring into the air, not looking at each other.

“You don’t have to decide right away,” suggests Cora eventually. “Alejandro’s house is big. You can just stay there a while longer, while you figure it out. They won’t mind. We all like having you around.”

Derek snorts. “Some more than others,” he mumbles darkly. Most of his spare time is spent cooking up creative ways of avoiding Sofia and Isadora, who so far, doesn’t seem to understand that he’s not interested.

“The Twisted Sisters?” Cora asks mirthfully. Derek grunts in affirmation.

“I’ll have another talk with them,” she promises. Derek shakes his head.

“That won’t help much. I’m more concerned about Agustina, to be honest. I’m pretty sure she has a date picked out and a priest on hold. If I stay there much longer I’m sure she’ll measure me for a suit in my sleep, and then I’m doomed.”

“Doomed to be groomed into a groom,” jokes Cora, and it’s such a lame pun not even Stiles could get away with it. Derek simply glares at her, feeling one hundred percent fed up and done. Cora sobers quickly.

“Okay, brother dearest. You’re exaggerating just a little bit, but I get your point.”

Cora still looks more amused than worried. Which isn’t fair. She’s got a perfectly normal, non-stalking boyfriend, and otherwise very little to worry about.

“I don’t really get the problem,” Cora muses. “I get that Sofia and Isadora can be intimidating and a bit much when they’re competing for your attention. But if you spent some time with them, one on one, I’m sure you’ll come to see they’re not the man eating black widows you’re making them out to be. In fact, Sofia’s only had one serious boyfriend, and Isadora spent her entire high school pining for a guy who never gave her the time of day. Alejandro doesn’t let them date or go out unless he meets and approves the guy first, he’s pretty old-fashioned like that. You being here, all gorgeous, in-house and someone their parents actually like is like Christmas came early handing them the moon. Also, they’re super competitive, which you know, makes them go a little -”

Cora twirls her hands around in the universal sign for insanity.

“Cuckoo, the pair of them, you’re right about that,” he scoffs glumly.

Derek honestly can’t get this version of the sisters to rhyme with what he’s experienced so far, but Cora has spent years living with them and probably knows best. But even if he peels away all the crazy, and there are lots of layers, Derek’s still not interested. He can objectively admit that they’re both smoking hot, but ever since Paige the idea of letting anyone in, emotionally speaking, scares him shitless. If the offer was just casual sex, no strings attached, he might consider it. But he’s not keen on offending Cora’s adoptive family. Agustina for one, downright scares him.

“It’s your loss, I’m just saying there’s more to them than shapely legs and fancy manicure.”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, more to appease Cora than anything. She doesn’t push the issue, simply closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Like she’s steeling herself for something. Derek feels the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He breathes deeply and - crap! Cora is definitely emitting some very troubling chemo signals. It’s probably a sensible time to abort mission, and leave.

  
“Please don’t bite my head off, but I just have to ask you something,” blurts Cora before Derek’s had a chance to react. The words spill out in a rush. Almost as if she’s afraid if she doesn’t let them all out now, they’ll be trapped inside her forever.

“You’re an attractive guy - and I can say that even if I’m your sister. I have eyes,” she snaps when Derek tries to interrupt her.

“I mean, you literally have women throwing themselves at you, and yet you never date. At least not here, and certainly not in Beacon Hills. I have my sources, as you know,” she adds, effectively cutting down all protests building up.

“And no, Jennifer the darach doesn’t count. She was crazy and there was clearly some sort of magic mojo involved. And don’t get me wrong, Braeden sounds - _spunky_ , but I didn’t exactly get a warm and fuzzy vibe when I talked to her. And you haven’t so much as talked to her since you got here, which speaks volumes.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is -.”

Cora stops abruptly, lips pursed, eyes closed. Like she’s sifting through her mental database in search of the right combination of words that will magically unlock the heavily secured emotional vault of Derek Hale.

“My point is,” she repeats slowly, eyes soft. “I know you lost Paige. I’ve only heard Peter’s version of events, and like Stiles, I’m not entirely sure I believe it. Whatever happened I’m sure it scarred you, hurt you in ways no teenager should be hurt.”

She pauses, searching his face for a reaction. Her face falls when there’s none.

“And you lost your family not long after. You’ve lost a lot, Derek. I’m just scared it’s left you with some pent up emotions, sorrow and I dunno, _guilt_ maybe, that you’ve never properly worked through. Have you considered talking to someone?”

At the mention of Paige, Derek’s walls come back up, the gate closes, a huge metaphorical moat dug all around him, impenetrable and deep.

Derek has only talked about Paige with one person. Confided his sins, shared his feelings, his guilt and his sorrow. Laid himself bare. It hadn’t helped much. Hadn’t helped at all, actually. Instead, it drove him straight into the arms of Kate. Why on earth would he want to do risk anything like that again?

 

  
————————————

Derek feels the change surge through him the moment Paige draws her last breath. It’s like he's being ripped apart, wrung out and then put back together haphazardly and wrong. His eyes burn, not just with tears, but with another new strange sensation. Not exactly painful, just foreign and different. Wrong.

After, when all he’s left with is a dull ache and a hollow heart, the echoes of Paige’s desperate pleas still resonate in his mind. Her faint and shaky voice, so beautiful even on the verge of agonizing death, begging him for release. Not a bitter bone in her frail body, no anger. He couldn’t deny her that. Not after what he’s inflicted on her. Not when his very existence has caused her death.

“Derek?”

A muffled choking sound is all that escapes him. The warm, comforting presence of his mother, his alpha, slowly fills the space underneath the cut down Nemeton. This was once a place he associated with safety. Now it’s forever tainted by his own fatal mistake of falling in love. It had seemed so easy, giving himself over body and soul to the girl with the dark hair, moles and crooked smile. Finding her was easy. Losing her feels like losing himself. Moving past this appears impossible.

Derek can’t see her, his head hung low. Shame, fear, guilt, endless sorrow. It all courses through him like a maelstrom, round and round, faster and faster. He’s slipping away, unanchored. The feeble control he clings to every day is severed almost entirely. Paige had been a grounding factor. Had calmed him in ways Derek didn’t know possible.

“I did something,” he confesses, voice shaky as he hears his mother’s soft footfall. Hear the swish of her skirt trail over the earthy floor as she draws nearer.

“Something terrible,” he whispers, voice cracking.

Talia kneels before him, her proximity radiating warmth and a sense of safety, despite the hopelessness of the situation.

“I know,” she replies, voice velvety smooth.

Derek’s breath hitches, and slowly, glacially he lifts his head.

“My eyes… they’re different.”

He knows the tales. Knows the dangers. Have heard all the horror stories about the consequences of pushing it too far. Never had he thought they were true, let alone something that would happen to him. Now he knows better.

“Different,” says Talia, her hand clutching his thigh reassuringly. “But still beautiful. Just like the rest of you.”

For a blessed moment Derek believes everything will be okay. His mom will make it better. Make things right. She holds him, comforts him as Derek blurts out everything. How they fell in love, how wonderful she was, how she somehow knew he was different, and didn’t care. She rocks him, tells him everything will be fine. That he didn’t do anything wrong. Derek believes her. Clings to her words, desperately.

  
He’s wrong.

  
His mother doesn’t make things better. Not even close. The warmth and understanding Derek feels underneath the Nemeton is gone like dew in the blazing sun the moment they’re back at the house. The second they step across the threshold she’s all business, leaving Derek in Peter’s care while she whisks his dad into the study, closing the door behind them with a firm thud.

“What did you do?” asks Peter in that infuriating drawl of his. He materializes seemingly out of thin air. It’s a gift he has. Always turning up when there’s drama afoot, like he can sense it. Perhaps he can.

Derek doesn’t answer, simply elbows his way past him, heading for the kitchen.

“You smell like that human girl you’re always sneaking off to see. The one with the cello.” He sniffs the air and arches an eyebrow. “You also smell like blood. Infected blood.”

His eyebrows all but disappear into his carefully coiffed fringe.

“Oh my, you’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you?”

Peter says it like it’s funny. Nothing about this is funny. Nothing will ever be funny again. Derek’s head is spinning, his blood boiling in his veins. Images of Paige, calling out to him, bloody and bitten, the bite not taking, crawling up the stairs at school, desperate to get away from the big hulking werewolf standing over her.

He’d lost it then. Had attacked Paige’s assailant with everything he had. How he gained the upper hand he’ll never know. Part of him wishes he’d lost. That he’d died beside her instead.

_Mom understands._

It’s the only thought keeping Derek sane. He paces the room, ignoring Peter, waiting for her to come back. To help him through this.

“Come on, Derek!” needles Peter, either too insensitive to realize what state he’s in, or he doesn’t care. “Don’t leave your favorite uncle hanging like this?”

He grabs hold of Derek’s shoulder and that’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Derek whirls around, eyes flashing, claws out in a growl.

Peter’s eyes go wide, before he backs away, hands up.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, staring in shock at Derek’s eyes. Eyes he knows are now burning bright blue.

“You - no.” Peter shakes his head, all traces of merriment and teasing evaporated.

Derek crumbles to the floor, sobbing. It’s too much. Losing Paige is bad enough. The changes in him are only making it worse. Visible for all to see, a permanent reminder of a fatal flaw. To fall in love with a human. 

Thankfully his mom chooses that moment to breeze into the room, his dad hot on her heels. Derek instantly feels soothed just by her presence.

“Ah, Peter. There you are. I have a task for you,” she says, all businesslike. “There’s a body of a young girl underneath the Nemeton. I trust you understand how paramount it is no one finds her like this. She was bitten, but the bite didn’t take. Derek -.”  
  
She stops abruptly, as if she can’t bare to speak the words. There’s no need. His eyes are still burning brightly. They tell them all they need to know.

“Clean her body. Make sure all traces of infected blood is removed. It needs to look like an animal attack. I entrust you know what that entails?”

Peter gulps audibly, but nods his head.

“Take her far from here. Several miles outside our territory would be best. It won’t keep the hunters from sniffing around, but if they follow the code, we should be fine.”

Peter nods, then disappears out the backdoor without another word. Talia turns towards Derek, flashing her alpha eyes. Instinctively he retracts his beta form, eyes and all. It leaves him feeling empty. Small.

“Derek, you’ve got school tomorrow. Better get cleaned up and head for bed.”

It takes a few moments for the words to penetrate his mind. To fully register. Even then he needs to rewind, play them over, and then do it again before it sinks in.

“Mom,” he whispers, voice hoarse and raw. “I can’t -. How can you expect me to go to school tomorrow? Paige - .”

Another flash of red eyes and Derek falls quiet.

“It will probably take another 12 hours or so before Paige’s parents can officially report her missing.”

Talia’s words are precise, measured. Calculated. Firm. But most of all they’re cold. Icy and sharp, all traces of the empathy she showed earlier erased from her face.

“It’s important for you to act normally, go to school and basketball practice. These next few days and weeks are crucial. We can’t risk either the sheriff’s station or hunters to catch on to you. So you have to act as if you know nothing. Peter will provide you with an alibi for tonight. Perhaps it would be best if you told people you two broke up. In fact that might explain why she ran off into the woods, distraught.”

Wait? _What!_

“Mom! Wait, you can possibly mean -. Mom, I loved her, I can’t just show up to school and act like I don’t care!”

His mom’s back is turned towards him, shoulders slumped. For a moment Derek thinks she’s crying, because he can see tremors. Then she raises her head and turns, face blank.

“You can mourn in private. On the surface you need to distance yourself. For your own safety. For your family. We will not speak of this again.”

His father has been silent throughout this exchange. When Talia breezes from the room without another word, he’s the one who lays a comforting hand on his shoulder and guides him to his room. They don’t speak though. The alpha’s words are law, after all.

Paige is never mentioned again.

______________________

 

  
“Derek?”

Derek returns to the present to find Cora snapping her fingers in his face.

“Where did you go?” she asks, concern lining her voice. “I asked if you’d considered talking to someone. A professional, maybe?”

Derek snorts. “A shrink? Yeah, let me pull up the yellow pages to find a psychiatrist specializing in lycanthropy.”

Cora rolls her eyes, lips pursed. “It’s possible to talk about feelings without mentioning your lycan abilities, you know.”

Derek shrugs. The idea of finding a head doctor to confide in is alien enough. If it entails weighing every word carefully before he speaks, it will be doubly hard. Derek and words are not all that friendly to begin with. It’s doomed to fail.

Besides, confiding his feelings has never gotten him anywhere good. He pored his heart out to his mother and she never spoke of it again. He gave his heart to Paige and it was ripped from him. He placed his trust in Kate and was left orphaned and broken as a result. No, it's safe to say Derek’s not too keen on talking to anyone.

Although, Stiles had offered. Just the other day. Derek had wanted to help him cope with his demons, thinking it would be good for Stiles to talk it out. The little shit had actually turned the table on him, offering the same in return. Funnily enough, that hadn’t seemed so scary. In fact, it had almost been tempting. But Stiles is leaving. Going off to Washington to start a new life, a better one away from Beacon Hills. Burdening him with his tainted baggage somehow seems unnecessarily cruel.

A few minutes go by in relative silence, before Cora finally stands up again, dusting off her pants.

“If you want my opinion, I think you should wait. Take the time to properly consider where you want to put down roots. If you’re staying here for you, I’ll support it. If you’re doing it just to be close to me, then you’re making a mistake.”

She smiles sadly, head cocked. “I’m 18 years old, Derek. You’ve not once asked me about my plans for the future. For your information, I’ve applied to colleges, both here and back in California. I’m not so sure this is where I’ll end up settling down. I might want to go back home.”

Derek stares at her in surprise. She’s right. He’d just assumed she’d stay here.

“Home?”

“Yeah,” nods Cora. “Home. Beacon Hills.”

Derek doesn’t know why those words scare him so. Is it still home? And if it’s not, then were is it? For a while, after the fire, he was sure it was New York. Now, he’s not so sure anymore. Or maybe he is, only it’s complicated. And terrifying in it’s simplicity. Is it really anything - anyone - there worth going back for?

She pauses, probably noticing the uptick of Derek’s heartbeat.

“I have bad memories from there, too” she admits. “I have nightmares about the fire, more often than I’d like to admit. But Derek, I have more good memories than bad. That counts for something. The land is ours and we have friends there. I’m scared to go back, but I’m even more scared of not giving it a try.”

Derek’s heart continues to beat erratically. Cora stops right in front of him, laying a hand on his head, ruffling his hair.

“I get that you have more bad memories than me, but sometimes I wonder…”

She trails off, smiling down on him.

“Wonder what?” he mumbles, partly hoping she won’t hear him. She does.

“I wonder if maybe the past isn’t so much the trouble as the future. That what lies ahead scares you more.”

Cora leaves after that, driving off leaving Derek to sit alone in the slowly dimming living room, chasing his own demons around his head until he eventually falls asleep.

The next morning he informs the realtor he’s not buying after all. Not yet, at any rate.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I have not watched season 6. Expect lots of differences from canon s6, just saying. I'm not even trying all that hard to follow the plotline to be honest. So, you've been warned. Also this is a bit of a transitional chapter. Not all that much Sterek interaction, and more about setting the scene for the next part of the story.

Life after the Dread Doctors is surprisingly - well, normal. Which basically means it’s also incredibly boring.

A first it’s pure bliss, stress free, and downright relaxing in a way Stiles can’t remember the last time he experienced. But as the days make way for weeks, and weeks turn into months, he has to admit he’s getting restless. He’s getting that itchy feeling again, the kind that usually leads to trouble.

 _Devastating_ trouble.

The last time Stiles felt this antsy, Scott was bitten and everything changed. Since then it’s been a non-stop roller coaster of supernatural shit, only intercepted by brief pockets of calm. Rationally speaking, Stiles knows he needs to keep himself in check and not seek out potential new horrors. And since idleness seems a sure-fire way to kick-start unwanted crap, he’s doing his best to occupy every waking hour with activities or chores.

School’s a good place to start. For the last year and counting it’s been something he just powers through with the bare minimal of effort, before channeling all his energy and focus on his supernatural “job.” Falling back into normal routines take time. Especially since there are some noticeable changes, and not all of them for the better, that makes the transition anything but smooth.

Stopping the Doctors and saving Mason come at price. Kira is gone, and there’s little to suggest she’ll be back anytime soon. Scott is devastated, and for the first few weeks he’s withdrawn and gloomy, which makes every interaction challenging. It doesn’t help that things between Stiles and Scott are still a bit awkward. The pink tutu-wearing elephant is still crashing most of their interactions, and with Scott extra sensitive after Kira’s departure, more than one encounter end in shouting matches and prolonged silent treatments.

They’re both to blame for this. Scott should know better than to take his frustrations and heartache out on Stiles, and Stiles - well, he’s still pissed about the Donovan thing. He’s already groveled and apologized, explained and waited. The ball’s in Scott’s court, but there’s little to suggest he’s interested in passing it back. The easiest thing is to simply let it go, and go on like he usually does, swallowing his pride and annoyance. Scott will probably never be able to understand his side of things anyway, and by now too much time has passed for anything good to come out by dragging it up again. It’s not right, but it is what it is. For some reason it’s much harder this time. Like an invisible line has been crossed, one that’s changed things and going back across it, won’t turn things back the way they were. So, why bother at all?

Slowly but surely Scott picks himself up, starts paying attention in class again, working at Deaton’s and throwing himself into lacrosse practice with renewed energy. That helps, but it’s evident he’s still mourning.

Part of Stiles mourns too. Not so much the departure of Kira, even if he does miss her bubbly antics, but more the death of his and Scott’s friendship as it once was. In a way much of what he dreaded before this school year is already sneaking up on them. Perhaps his dad is right. High school friendships don’t last. That notion makes Stiles feel sad, but lonely more than anything.

The rest of the pack seems relieved and happy to see their alpha return to form. Stiles isn’t fooled, though. Scott might be smiling again, but he knows only too well the signs of repressed feelings and avoidance. He tries to broach the subject a few times, but is quite brutally shut down and soon gives up.

On a brighter note, Theo is also gone, and no one misses him. Corey is gradually included in the pack, a fact that is never outright stated, and instead decided by some a sort of tacit agreement. He and Mason are pretty much attached at the hip anyway - or rather lip. They’re cute, Stiles has to admit. They’re so unfiltered and open in their interactions, it leaves him with an odd sensation fluttering in his stomach. Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it, which naturally means he ignores it. At least some thing hasn’t changed.

Stiles tries to pour at as of his pent up energy as possible onto the lacrosse field, but it’s not enough, even if Finstock is crazier than ever. As it turns out it’s Lydia who provides the ultimate distraction for his itch. She’s got enough credit to graduate early, but seems determined to break every school record on file. Naturally, she’s a shoe in for valedictorian. No one in their right mind should even attempt to usurp her of that title, but when she points out that salutatorian is within reach, Stiles goes all in. They spend most afternoons studying together, either at the library or spread out in the Stilinski living room. Mrs. Martin is still somewhat icy in her interactions with Stiles, so they avoid Lydia’s house as much as possible.

Unsurprisingly they work well together, also when it comes to academics. Gradually, Stiles’ neglected schoolwork and grades pick up steam, which is just as well, given that he’s applied to a bunch of really hard-to-get-into places, each and everyone some form of law enforcement oriented study.

 

*

  
“So, you and Lydia, huh?”

Scott’s comment startles Stiles enough to get him tangled in his own t-shirt. They’re fresh out of the showers after a particular grueling training session with Finstock, and Stiles is daydreaming about the bucket of curly fries he plans on picking up on his way to his study-session with Lydia.

He eventually manages to thread his limbs into all the right holes, and meets Scott’s amused face.

“You’re waggling your eyebrows,” he says, honestly befuddled. “Don’t do that. Please. It looks like two caterpillars are having seizures on your face.”

“A+ deflection technique,” retorts Scott with a laugh. “Come on, man. You’ve been pining after her for years. Looks like the ten year plan is paying off with interest. You two spend every afternoon together “studying”.”

Scott’s making air quotes. Stiles flails.

“No air quotes! We’ve talked about this, honestly! Also, you’re using them wrong. Besides, we are studying.”

Scott snorts. “Sure you are,” he smirks. “Studying each other’s tonsils, am I right? “Advanced anatomy”?”

God, more air quotes! Stiles flails.

_“What? No!”_

Scott looks honestly confused. Like he’s not sure if Stiles is pulling his leg or not. Stiles can’t really fault him. It’s a fair point. After all, he has been waxing poetic about Lydia Martin since the third grade, and he genuinely loves her, more than ever now that he’s gotten to know her better. Which is why it was quite a fist to the face when he realized his feelings are purely platonic. In fact, the idea of making a move on Lydia seems both foreign and wrong.

“No?” Scott looks pensive. Like he’s working on a particular challenging algebra problem. “So, you’re not gonna make a move on her?”

Somehow Stiles can’t make himself confess that his feelings for her have changed this drastically. Instead, he just laughs it off and sells himself short, saying she’s too good for a schmuck like him anyway.

“But she said you saved her!” exclaims Scott outraged, and for a split second everything feels right between them again. “You’re her fucking _hero_ , dude!”

Stiles simply shrugs self-deprecating and leaves the locker room with Scott spluttering in his wake. Even if he was still interested, it would’ve been entirely one-sided anyway. Stiles happens to know Lydia is in the early stages of what promises to be a whirlwind romance with Parrish, and he wouldn’t dream of interfering. Not when she can literally scream his head off, and if that doesn’t kill him, Parrish can probably roast him to a crisp. Yeah, no. Stiles knows enough about geometry to know that kind of triangle won’t end well. Not for him.

 

  
*

  
All in all, the weekdays aren’t really the problem. Between school, lacrosse and studying with Lydia, Stiles’ days are all filled up. The weekends on the other hand is an entirely different thing. At first he fills every waking hour with marathon gaming sessions with Scott, binge watching Netflix, and so much masturbation it’s a wonder he doesn’t sprain his wrists. After a while these things loose their appeal, impossible as it might seem.

Stiles’ solution is to bug Derek as much as possible. In fact, Stiles now makes it a point to call Derek every night. In many ways, it’s the highlight of his day. He doesn’t stop to examine this fact too closely. If he sometimes gets a little fluttering feeling in his stomach when Derek answers his phone, that’s nobody’s business. It’s nothing anyway. And even if it was something, which it most likely isn’t, it’s extremely one-sided, so there’s really no need to reflect on it at all. Friends is good. Stiles can totally work with that.

If he sometimes thinks of Derek late at night and that leads to some quality Stiles time, that’s not anything worth getting worked up over either. Stiles can admit Derek’s an attractive dude, and he’s always been somewhat fluid in his preferences. He used to jack off thinking about Danny all the time, after all. So, yeah. Bygones.

“Derek, my sour pal, what’s up!”

Stiles leans ridiculously far back in his swivel chair, more or less defying gravity, grinning stupidly into thin air as he hears Derek’s long-suffering sigh on the other end.

“I’m up, Stiles. Far up on a scaffolding, using power tools that I’d love to test out on you.”

“You’re working on a Saturday? Are you in Slaver’s Bay?”

Derek ignores Stiles’ blatant Game of Thrones reference, and instead a loud crack of what sounds like a gunshot rings through the receiver.

“Holy crap!” he shrieks, and topples off the chair in a spectacular display of limbs. Derek’s guffaws are impossible to ignore even though Stiles dropped the phone in his fall, along with his dignity.

“Bastard,” Stiles grumbles. Another shot rings out before Derek’s voice is back, oozing merriment.

“Nailed it,” he drawls. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Haha, very funny. Let me guess. Nail gun?”

Derek answers with another shot, and Stiles promptly regrets calling in the first place, and tells him so in his haughtiest drawl.

“Sorry,” says Derek, not sounding sorry at all, the fucker. “Couldn’t resist. What did you want again?”

Stiles considers just hanging up, but he’s so fucking bored he’ll take anything over the dullness of his bedroom and the lack of social activities to partake in at the moment. Finals are drawing closer, and panic has begun to spread among the seniors like rampant wildfire, which means no parties. Not that Stiles is exactly known for his partying, but it’s kind of ironic (don’t you think) that when he finally has the time to do stupid teenage shit, there’s no stupid teenage shit to be found.

“Did you know,” he begins, trying to adapt the intriguing and somewhat whispered voice-over of most nature shows, “that the praying mantis is unique among insects in their ability to turn their heads a full 180 degrees?”

Silence falls on the other end. Stiles can vaguely make out someone conversing in rapid Spanish in the background.

“Hello?”

Did Derek fall off the scaffolding?

“Yo, Derek. You there?”

“Seriously?”

Derek’s voice is unreadable. Stiles chooses to interpret it as intensely fascinated and in awe of this fact. Come on, who wouldn’t be?

“Yeah, even you, ninja wolf, would have problems sneaking up on one. They can look over the shoulder in a snap, catch you right as you tiptoe up behind them.”

“And why would I tiptoe up to a praying mantis, Stiles?”

“I dunno? Oh, and by the way, they only have one ear.”

Derek sighs. “Stiles, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume you’re very bored right now.”

“So bored,” he confirms, nodding his head.

“While I appreciate and feel slightly baffled that you assume I can entertain you, I’m actually at work right now, so as interesting as these little facts are, we have to reschedule.”

“Spoilsport,” mumbles Stiles, somewhat surprised by how disappointed he actually feels.

“Can’t you get a weekend job or something?”

Stiles scoffs. “Like what? Can you imagine me waiting tables?”

“Dear lord, no. I was thinking more along the lines of, I dunno. Helping out at the station, or something.”

That’s - actually an awesome idea. Who knew Derek Hale is such a genius? He doesn’t tell him that, obviously. Instead, Stiles rattles off a string of other useless information about praying mantis’, before making a few lame tool-related puns (” _saw_ you later”) and then hanging up.

“Nail that, sucker!” he crows to the empty room, knowing perfectly well that he’d much rather nail Derek, but that’s between him, his dick, his hand, and no one else.

 

 

**~**

 

It turns out his dad agrees Derek’s idea is good, and the next day Stiles finds himself in the archive room, sifting through boxes upon boxes of old cases. His dad started this right after he learned about all the supernatural shit, creating kanima piles, werewolf piles and more. He never really got through it all, but is still interested. Stiles is more than happy to pick up where he left off, even if it pays next to nothing.

“It will be good for me to know which cases are supernaturally related and what’s attributed to good old human scum,” his dad admits, scratching his head. “Both so I can know which cases I can put aside and not have any of my human deputies on, but also to learn what to look for in terms of signs, patterns and so on.”

“Way ahead of you already,” mumbles Stiles, gesturing to his laptop. “I’ve been working a database for some time now. You know, basically putting everything from the bestiary into a more handy, searchable software. It lists characteristics, habits, preferred methods of killing, how to maim and/or kill it, and more.”

“Wow.”

His dad sounds honestly impressed, leaning in to take a closer look.

“It even has visuals?” he asks astonished. “Is that some sort of animation?”

Stiles realizes a second too late what his dad is about to do.

“NO! Dad don’t!”

It’s too late. The sheriff has already clicked the button that activates the animation. A gut-churning screech fills the archive room. Stiles’ dad jumps back in fright, taking with him most of the kanima pile in the process.

 _“What,_ ” he enunciates slowly, eyes wide, “ _the fuck_ did I just watch?”

Stiles hurriedly closes the animation, taking care to remove the laptop from his dad. Just in case.

“Eh, the kanima’s alpha shape.”

“It could’ve evolved? To _that_?” His dad’s eyes are wide as saucers. “ _That thing had wings!_ ”

“I know. We kinda dodged a bullet on that one, huh.”

“I’d say.” He shakes his head as he leaves the room, muttering about Pokemon under his breath.

Stiles looses track of time after that, too invested in the case files to notice time or place. The sheriff has to physically drag him away late at night, but he’s back again bright and early the day after. It’s the most alive he’s felt in a long time, and although he realizes reading over horrifying case details and cataloging monsters is no laughing matter, he’s truly in his element.

This goes on for a few weeks. Naturally though, it couldn’t last. Nothing in Beacon Hills ever does.

 

  
**

 

“Stiles?”

He startles, dropping a stack folders and knocking over his bottle of water.

“Jesus dad, announce yourself!”

His dad shakes his head, surveying the mess with a resigned look. It looks like a small bomb has gone off, with Stiles as the epicenter of it all.

“You look like you could use a break. Mind helping me out with something?”

Stiles flails to his feet, like a dog who’s just been told it’s time for its walk.

“Really?” he asks, breathless, stumbling after his dad up the stairs. “What do you need? Someone to play good cop? Bad cop? Are you taking me on a case? Do I get a gun?”

The sheriff stops, turns slowly, pinning Stiles with a look so exasperated you’d think he’d just asked for the moon.

“What? No gun?” Stiles pouts. “I’m kinda sick of being held at gunpoint without any means to defend myself. I’m not going into the field without some sort of weapon.”

“Who said anything about fieldwork?” The sheriff turns again, continuing towards his office, beckoning Stiles to follow.

“I need you to look after a material witness,” he says, ushering Stiles inside. “I have to go out to the crime scene now, and we’re low on staff. Please keep him company until Child Protective Services gets here.”

Stiles barely registers his dad’s words. He’s staring at the “material witness”, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“This isn’t witness protection,” he protests, gesturing to the boy cowering on his dad’s leather couch. He can’t be more than 7 or 8 at the most, and looks like a small gust of wind will do him in.

“This is babysitting,” he finishes in a mumble when he realizes his dad has already left and can’t hear him. The boy stares at him with fearful eyes. Stiles has a feeling his own face mirrors it perfectly.

 

  
*

  
“So,” Stiles says fake-cheerfully. “What’s your name? I’m Stiles, by the way.”

“Like Harry?” asks the boy, nose scrunched up. He looks a bit like a skittish squirrel.

“Harry who?”

Jesus, Stiles knows nothing about kids’ lingo these days. The only other Harry he can think of is Potter, but he somehow doubts that’s what the kid is referring too.

“Styles, dummy,” says the boy, looking at Stiles like he’s an alien. “Harry Styles. One Direction.”

“Oh, him. No.” Stiles shakes his head furiously. “But I do get that a lot. People mistaking us. Story of my Life. I guess that’s the One Thing that’s gonna Drag Me Down,” he ads with a grin. The kid looks entirely unimpressed. Clearly he doesn’t appreciate or get puns, Stiles notes, feeling very unmotivated. That’s like half his material down the drain.

“You don’t have a name, then?” he prods again. “Are you by chance one of those cool kids everyone knows but no one dares speak their name. Like Kid Voldemort. Voldy Jr.”

That gets his attention.

“I’m nothing like him!” the boy exclaims angrily. Stiles throws his hands up.

“Noted. What should I call you then?”

“Ben,” he mutters, picking at his jeans. “Benjamin Presley Wilburn the third.”

Stiles nods, one eyebrow arched. “Alright, I’ll just call you Third, then. Or was it turd?”

“Ben!” the kid yells.

“Fine, if you insist. Ben. Sit tight just a sec, okay. I’ll be right back.”

Stiles hurries out of the office and down the hall to the vending machine, and returns not 2 minutes later with a generous haul of treats. Ben visibly perks up, and happily dives in when Stiles gestures with a nod. For a little while the only sound is that of wrapping paper being torn open.

While they eat, Stiles observes the kid. He’s still curled up on the couch, his body hunched like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. He’s clinging to a tablet like his life depends on it, but he doesn’t seem interested in using it. His dad had left without telling Stiles anything about what he’d witnessed, but judging by his skittish behavior, something clearly got him spooked.

“So, Ben. I understand you saw something tonight,” says Stiles calmly. “Something that scared you. Made you sad.”

Ben slowly meets his eyes, face blank, then after a little while, a small nod.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

Ben shrugs, which isn’t exactly a no. Stiles decides some gentle prodding can’t hurt.

“If you want to tell me about it, that’s okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine too. Only, between me and you, I know that sharing bad stuff with others makes it easier. That way it’s not something you know all by yourself. We’ll both know, and that means I take half the bad stuff, you see.”

“Like sharing candy?”

Ben looks a bit confused.

“Sort of,” nods Stiles, hoping it’ll be the push he needs. Ben sits and stares at a Twix bar for a long time, than tears open the wrapper and ceremoniously hands one half to Stiles.

“Thanks.”

Ben takes a bite, chewing elaborately. Stiles nibbles on his, waiting impatiently.

“They took my mom and dad,” Ben finally announces, before taking another bite.

“They did? Who’s _they_?”

Stiles’ mind immediately jumps to cops. His dad had mentioned Child Protective Services, which means he’s probably on his way into the system. It’s logical to assume his parents are mixed up in something illegal. Stiles feels honestly bad for the boy. Being removed from his parents sounds rough. It’s probably necessary and the right move, but still sad.

“The scary knights took them,” mumbles Ben. His words are slightly muffled by the massive amount of chocolate in his mouth, and at first Stiles thinks he says something about knives, which doesn’t bode well.

“No, not knives. Knights,” corrects Ben. “They rode horses.”

“Knights on horses? That took your parents?”

Ben nods. “And my little sister. She was annoying, but I kind of miss her. When are they coming back?”

Stiles is at a loss. “I wish I knew,” he answers honestly. “Did they say anything when they took them?”

Ben shakes his head, licking his fingers. “No. We were in the car. Suddenly they were just there, right in front of us. One of them had a gun and shot at us. It made my mom, dad, and sister disappear.”

Ben’s face is tear-streaked and pale, as if the gravity of the situation has only just now hit him.

“The gun made them disappear?”

That’s - _weird_. Even for Beacon Hills. Ben is flat out crying now, his hiccups echoing around the room. Stiles feels incredibly out of his element. What was he thinking, attempting this on his own?

“It was like magic,” wails Ben, face hidden in his hands. “At first I thought the knights were Dementors. Their capes were made of shadows!”

Okay, so definitely something supernatural, then. Stiles is patting Ben awkwardly on his back. Thankfully, the door to his dad’s office swings open just then, and the sheriff walks in, looking haggard and bone tired.

“Stiles?”

“Sorry,” shrugs Stiles, or at least he tries to. Ben has crawled into his lap, his small hands clasped around his neck. “He’s a little upset,” he adds sheepishly.

His dad doesn’t comment, just gives Stiles a look between resignation and pride, then gestures for someone to enter the room. It’s two women tasked with taking care of Ben for the time being. The next half hour is spent trying to convince Ben to go with them. For the longest time he refuses to let go of Stiles.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” he whispers, voice wobbly so only Stiles can hear it. “I was mad at my parents because they wouldn’t let me have ice cream, and I remember wishing my sister was never born because she’s such a little cry baby. They took them because I wanted them gone, didn’t they?”

Stiles’ heart breaks in a zillion pieces, clutching Ben tighter to his chest.

“No,” he says firmly, trying to convey all the surety he can to this little grieving boy. “Bad people did this. It has nothing to do with you. You can’t wish people away, okay.”

“You sure?”

Stiles takes Ben’s face in his hands, looking him straight in the eyes, wiping away tears in the process.

“One hundred percent sure. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

 

Ten minutes later Ben walks out the door, albeit reluctantly. The sheriff sinks into his chair, letting out a deep breath of relief.

“You’re good with him,” he comments. Stiles shrugs. They don’t speak for a few moments, the sheriff staring into the air, seemingly lost in thought, Stiles worried about Ben.

“There was nothing at the scene,” his dad finally admits. “The car was just left abandoned in the middle of the road. No signs of anyone else. No sign of them walking off. Not a single witness.”

“One witness,” corrects Stiles.

“I’m afraid to ask,” mumbles his dad, raking a tired hand over his face. “What was it? Trolls? The abdominal snowman? Please, anything but that evolved Kanima thing.”

“I dunno,” mumbles Stiles, suddenly overcome with resignation. He’s been bitching about things being boring for weeks, and secretly sort of missing the supernatural mayhem. Now that it seems to be back, he regrets it vehemently.

“I’m getting to old for this shit,” proclaims his dad, channeling a very convincing Danny Glover.

“I’m gonna go look through the bestiary database,” says Stiles, exiting the room at warp speed. The sooner they can identify what they’re up against, the sooner Ben can get his family back.

Hopefully.  


 

 


	12. Chapter 12

“Riders in the night? Ghostly knights on horseback? Come on, are you serious?!”

Derek’s rolling his eyes, lounging on his bed listening to Stiles prattle on about the latest case that’s got the entire Beacon Hills’ Sheriff’s department stumped.

“Have you’ve been binge-watching Lord of the Rings again?” he asks mirthfully, grinning widely when Stiles splutters on the other end. That might be his favorite pastime, getting Stiles worked up.

“ _Have I-?_ You’re being obtuse on purpose, right? We’re talking mysterious disappearance into thin air in Beacon Hills! Of course it’s supernaturally linked, and need I remind you we’ve dealt with freaky Dread Doctors, alpha packs and a dark druid, just in the last year alone. Ghostly riders in the night isn’t at all out of context!”

Stiles sounds exasperated. Derek’s positive his cheeks are blotchy with red like he usually gets when he’s either angry, frustrated or just excited.

“Calm down, I’m only teasing,” he says lightly, twirling a pen lazily between his fingers. Stiles is not impressed.

“This is no laughing matter, mister! On that note, I’m not sure I appreciate this new joyous you. You’ve been grumpy and gloomy since they day I met you, and you choose this moment, while Beacon Hills residents are dropping off the face of earth, to act all chipper. That’s just bad form,” he adds as an afterthought. Derek is about ninety percent sure Stiles is grinning wildly while he’s talking, so he doesn’t let it get to him.

“Any leads?” he prompts, knowing that’s all it takes to derail his attention. “Is that database of yours up and running yet?”

“For your information it works brilliantly,” states Stiles in a fake huff.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s absolutely so. I’m a database whiz, in case you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t. Now I do. Does that mean the case is solved? The supernatural culprit identified? The supernatural seal team has been deployed to nab the assailant?”

Stiles mutters something under his breath. Derek can clearly visualize the flailing that accompanies it.

“What was that?” he asks innocently, having caught every muffled word.

“I said, the database works just fine,” repeats Stiles. “It just - lacks a bit of data to make it, like - _useful_.”

Derek chortles almost gleefully.

“It’s not funny,” mutters Stiles, making Derek laugh harder.

“You’re so predictable. Of course you hate putting the information in it. Let me guess - too dull and boring? It’s kind of a requisite, though. Importing the data doesn’t happen by magic.”

“I don’t see why it couldn’t,” says Stiles petulantly. Derek can envisage the pout quite clearly. “If werewolves with disappearing eyebrows is a thing, which by the way - super weird - then I don’t see why a bit of magic is so far-fetched.”

“Someone’s perturbed they didn’t get their Howarts letter,” teases Derek.

“I’d make an excellent wizard,” informs Stiles haughtily.

“Yeah, I reckon you would." Derek smiles fondly. “You’d be in Slytherin, though.”

“Yeah, I know. Obviously. I’d turn that house’s reputation around in no time. What about you? Gryffindor, right? Brave and all that jazz?”

Derek scrunches his nose, mulling it over. “I dunno, I’m kind of partial to Hufflepuff to be honest.”

Stiles guffaws. “You’re certainly full of surprises.”

 _Yeah,_ thinks Derek suddenly a bit more subdued. _Too many, and none of them the good kind._

“So,” he interjects, eager to turn the conversation away from him. Stiles has a habit of extracting information without even really trying. It’s unnerving and a little scary, letting someone know so many secrets.

“What’s the theory? About the Ringwraiths, I mean? You’ve been hitting the books I’m guessing.”

The line goes silent for a few beats, but Derek can hear paper rustling in the background.

“You’d be surprised by the amount of lore on scary stuff on horseback,” Stiles admits with a sigh. “Lydia and I’ve been at it all day, and the list is depressingly long. We’re picking it up again tomorrow.”

Derek rolls over onto his side, curling his hands around one of the pillows, kind of like hugging a giant teddy-bear. It’s comfortable.

“Lydia’s thinking it might be the Wild Hunt, though.” Stiles sounds apprehensive. Scared. “I’m hoping she’s wrong. That shit’s trippy.”

“Why would she think that?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, and sighs. “Mostly because of Parrish, I think. Apparently Hellhounds are linked to the hunt. She thinks the fact that he felt drawn here might be a sign. That the Hunt might follow in his wake or some shit like that. I dunno. It might have merit.”

“ _Hellhound_?!”

Derek’s sits up so abruptly the pillow scatters to the floor, feathers flying everywhere. He stares at his hand in confusion, suddenly noticing the claws. Leaning over to inspect the damage he finds the pillow partially shredded. So much for control.

“Yeah, didn’t I mention that? I thought I did.”

The paper rustling intensifies, almost as if Stiles is nestled inside a pile of it. Come to think of it, that’s not such an unlikely scenario.

“You didn’t,” replies Derek, voice tense. “Mention that, I mean. I’d remember.”

“Oh, okay. My bad. It’s all good though. Or you know, not all good. But Parrish - totally harmless. To us at least. He’s fireproof, which is handy you know. Has a tendency to turn up butt naked, but he’s kind of ripped, so not exactly an eyesore. Anyway, as far as supernatural creatures go, he’s not so bad. Scott keeps suggesting we should invite him over for a barbecue, though I doubt Jordan will appreciate people sticking slabs of meat on him and ask him to grill it, medium rare.”

Derek only manges a low growl that frankly comes off more pained than threatening.

“You okay, buddy? Don’t worry. We’re obviously not gonna use Parrish as a cooker.” Stiles chortles. Derek whines.

“You got a stomach ache or something?”

“No.”

“Okay, good. Wait - oh, dad’s calling me down for dinner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, I guess. Might be a bit later than usual. I’m thinking of driving over to talk to that kid again. Ben. The one whose parents got zapped by the Nazgul.”

“Oh, okay. Stay sa- .”

Derek was gonna say “Stay safe” but Stiles hangs up before he gets all the words out. Just as well. They’re certainly friendlier than before, but that might come off as a bit too - whatever. He shakes it off, and goes to take a shower before dinner.

 

  
**

 

Despite the somewhat dreary topics discussed with Stiles, Derek’s still in a remarkably good mood when he steps out of the shower. It’s probably because Agustina is preparing steaks and the entire house smells incredible. Derek refuses to examine other possible reasons or contributing factors, stubborn as he is.

His good mood does not go unnoticed.

“Ah, estimado Derek, momento perfecto.”

Agustina descends on him the moment Derek steps foot in the kitchen, pouncing like a playful kitten, though thankfully without the claws. Instead, she hands him a masher and points him to the table and a sizable pot of boiled potatoes.

“Put those well-defined biceps to good use, por favor,” she commands playfully in her usual mix of Spanish and English, before turning back to the stove. Derek obeys without question.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” she comments a few minutes later, the corner of her eyes crinkling as she smiles over her shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

Derek’s so lost in his own thoughts and the hypnotic lull of mashing, it takes him a few beats to realize she’s addressing him.

“No need for excuses,” insists Agustina as she wields a huge pepper shaker with the same kind of surety and precision a soldier handles his gun.

“Your scent has changed since you got here. Much happier,” she nods. “And no,” she says mirthfully before Derek has the chance to respond, “I know it has nothing to do with my persistent daughters. For your information, I’ve asked them to tone it down. They’re heartbroken, of course. You’re a handsome man. The grandbabies would’ve been beautiful. But they’ll live. A good life lesson for them both, not to get what they want every time.”

Derek continues to mash the potatoes, not really knowing how to respond. He settles for a simple “thank you.”

Agustina lets out a deep sigh, shaking her head slightly. She reminds Derek of his grandmother, the same theatrics and mannerisms. There’s been no cheek pinching so far, though, which is a relief.

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed,” she admits with a dramatic pout. “I would love to include you in the family. Officially, I mean. As Cora’s brother you’ll always have a place with us. No matter, I’m an old woman, I know the signs, and I wouldn’t dream of meddling in your love life, or ruining your happiness.”

“I don’t follow.”

Derek honestly doesn’t. She lost him somewhere around ‘love life’. Agustina tuts, shaking a spoon dripping with gravy in his direction. Drops spray half the kitchen floor, but she doesn’t seem to notice. It’s a shame really. Her gravy is like heaven liquefied and shouldn’t be wasted.

“Silly man,” she chides, face stern. “You talk every night. Your scent always changes after. Happier. Content. I know a man in love when I see one.”

Derek drops the masher on the floor, and for a moment simply stares unblinkingly and uncomprehendingly at the petite woman, now busy steaming vegetables like a seasoned chef. Agustina rolls her eyes, muttering in rapid Spanish, the words mostly drowned out by the hiss of the stove. Derek vaguely picks up bits and pieces about fools and denial. Like he hasn’t heard that before.

“I’m not,” he protests weakly. “I’m not in -.”

Derek can’t even bring himself to utter the word.

Do they even realize the only one he talks to most nights is Stiles? Clearly, the Silvas have misjudged the nature of their relationship. Do they even know it’s a guy he’s talking to? Not that Derek is opposed to same sex relationships, not at all. He’s just never experienced it himself, so the notion is - foreign. Different, and not something he’s entertained before. Not seriously, at any rate. He’s aware that Stiles’ preferences seems to be - well, somewhat fluid, and yet -. No. It’s unimaginable.

Right?

At the back of his mind Laura is humming the theme from Love Boat, smirking broadly. It’s all very confusing.

Gender isn’t really the issue, anyway. In all honesty, Stiles’ age is a bigger concern. True, he’s turned 18 so it’s not illegal, but Derek’s own experience with older lovers has left lasting scars. No matter, even age is inconsequential. Derek has no intention of ever falling in love again. Love is, in his experience, much like the fire. It burns hot and leaves nothing but scorched wasteland behind. It’s not worth it.

“Cora is right,” says Agustina with a frown, breaking Derek out of his inner freakout. “You’re in denial. Not uncommon with men. Very stupid when it comes to emotions. Stupid and pigheaded. You’ll come around soon enough.”

She nods sagely, like she’s a wise elder in a tropical tribe who’s interpreted the stars alignments or some other mumbo-jumbo.

“Cora is not right!” protests Derek weakly, voice hitting a much higher pitch than he's comfortable with while once again cursing his inability to form coherent and witty comebacks when he’s emotionally flustered.

“Of course she is,” scoffs Agustina. “It’s clear as day. You were whistling.”

“I was not!”

Derek flails a bit, which just goes to show how preposterous this entire conversation is.

“I don’t whistle. I don’t even think I know how! Besides, what’s that got to do with anything?”

The door to the kitchen opens and Alejandro walks in, ignoring them both, despite the raised voices. He heads for the fridge, opening it with determination and pulls out a mug of homemade lemonade. Agustina wordlessly hands him a glass, brandishing it in his face just moments before he’s about to drink directly from the pitcher. He grumbles, but accepts it without protest, then proceeds to down not just one, but three glasses before he turns around, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and surveying Derek with dark, curious eyes.

“I expect you’ll be leaving soon,” he says, nodding his head slowly, smoothing a hand over his considerable mustache.

“I - I don’t follow.”

Derek’s completely given up on the potatoes. The mash will be lumpy, but he just can’t seem to find the concentration needed to get back into the rhythm of the task. Not with the alpha and his wife making all kinds of ludicrous statements. He doesn’t want to come across as disrespectful, but Derek’s pretty close to giving up on this conversation, too. They’re not making even an iota of sense.

“You’ve been whistling,” says Alejandro, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it means something important. Something profound. As if blowing air out of your mouth through pursed lips can somehow foretell if someone’s leaving. Or in love. It’s insane!

Alejandro pulls out the chair opposite Derek, then sits down, leaning his elbows on the table, staring intently. Derek flashes back to his fourteenth birthday when his dad sat him down, not unlike this, for “The Talk”. It had been equally mortifying.

“Men only whistle for two reasons, mi amigo. One, if we’ve fucked up and are trying to act casual and unsuspecting, and -,” he pauses to down the last of the lemonade. “Two, if we’re in love. It’s a primal mating call. Very prominent with werewolves for some reason.”

Mating call? Derek simply stares at the pair, waiting for the punchline of an epic joke to be revealed. He quickly runs through the dates in his head, and no, it’s not April fools, which would’ve explained so much.

“He looks confused,” says Alejandro in Spanish, handing the empty glass back to Agustina.

“His head has not jet caught up with his heart. I don’t think he knows about the whistling,” she says pensively.

“How does he not know about the whistling?”

Alejandro throws out his arms in a dramatic fashion. For a split second Derek is sure he’s doing it to be funny, but when he turns around his facial expression quickly quells that idea. It’s caught between incredulity and sadness, in a way you just can’t fake, and if you could your mantel would consist of nothing but Oscars, instead of scented candles and family photos.

“I’ve literally never heard anything about whistling!” groans Derek, slumping back in his chair, arms crossed defensively. “It sounds made up! It’s like saying we’ve got soul mates, someone predestined to be your one and only and that’s just nuts!”

Alejandro and Agustina gasp in unified sync, then descends into rapid-fire Spanish. Derek officially gives up, declaring them romantically disturbed. He’s not hungry anymore, and wants to escape back to his room.

“I don’t whistle,” he mumbles angrily, more to himself than anything else. Not that it’s relevant to him anyway. It’s probably just the result of some local myth ingrained in their culture. Like Chilean werewolf folklore. It’s not like his own family didn’t have the odd quirk or two. Grandma Corrine had always insisted love smells like pine and honeysuckle, and that’s how you know you’re meant to be with someone. If that was the case, anyone could just waltz into the nearest Lush and stock up with fake “love scents”, so it always seemed obvious to Derek that it was more myth than fact.

Sadly, Derek can’t seem to catch a break. Clearly, the world at large is conspiring against him, the fates are cruel and the planet Uranus is no longer aligned with Venus in the twelfth house, because Cora chooses this exact moment to walk in, her boyfriend Jesus in tow. She stops just inside the door, a delightful and borderline cruel smile Derek’s come to associates with merciless teasing, spread across her face. If Derek could listen to her inner thoughts, he’s ninety seven percent certain she’s cackling evilly, twirling her metaphorical mustache.

“They confronted you about your whistling, didn’t they?” she accuses gleefully, dumping down in the chair next to Alejandro, scooping up a bit of half-mashed potato with her finger, regarding it skeptically before putting it in her mouth.

“This needs more work,” she declares. “Too lumpy.”

“Fuck off,” replies Derek unimaginatively.

“Someone’s grumpy.”

God, she’s leering now. Derek suppresses the urge to throw a handful of the imperfect mash in her face.

“Still sailing that lopsided raft of yours down the Nile?”

“I don’t whistle!” snaps Derek. Cora guffaws.

“Is that so?” She arches an eyebrow.

“Absolutely. I don’t think I’ve ever whistled in my life. I don’t even know how!”

Jesus’ head bobs back and forth between Cora and Derek, like he’s watching ping pong and is unable to keep track of the ball.

“But, you whistle all the time,” he blurts. “When you first started working the construction site, you were quiet. Now, you whistle all day long. Happy songs,” he adds helpfully, giving Derek a hesitant smile. Cora breaks down in peels of laughter.

“I don’t get why you’re so defensive.” Agustina sounds almost offended. Like she’s the love police and Derek’s just run a red light while speeding. “Love is a beautiful thing. It should be celebrated. Cherished!”

“You hear that, Dear-bear?” Cora leans over to ruffle his hair. “ _Cherished_!”

“Is it because you love a man?” asks Agustina, waving the gravy spoon around again. “Even an old woman like me knows not to question love, no matter the combination.”

That’s it!! Derek’s just about had enough of this lunacy! He stands up so abruptly the chair crashes to the floor. Agustina squeals and clutches her chest. Alejandro’s eyes flash red for a split second.

“I can’t listen to this,” Derek mutters, elbowing his way past his hosts and a befuddled Jesus. Cora’s still chortling like the devil she is.

“Not a word,” he hisses at her as he storms by. She throws her hands up.

“Don’t worry, bro. I’m not saying a thing. I’m here though, if you want to talk about it. I recommend you stop sailing down that silly river, and just fess up.”

“He’s very stubborn,” concedes Agustina with a sigh.

It’s the last coherent thing Derek hears before the transformation washes over him. He leaps off the patio, his paws hitting the ground with soft thuds, before sprinting as far away as possible from the Whistling Madhouse.

 

  
**~**

 

  
Stiles is speeding.

Well, not really. It’s hard to break speed limits with an old piece of duct-taped junk like his beloved Roscoe, but it feels like he’s speeding. Mostly because the car is producing a myriad of alarming sounds, almost like it’s on the brink of breaking down completely. It probably is. Some days Stiles wonders if the only thing keeping it running is the force of his own will. Kind of like the mountain ash that sometimes mysteriously breaks without touch. Which would be terrifying and cool all rolled into one. He’s always wanted to be a Jedi.

Anyway, that’s not what’s got him preoccupied right now. Something is wrong. Very wrong, and he’s got a vague inkling what it is, but the thought scares him more than his unresolved feelings for Derek. Which you know, makes it pretty freaking terrifying. Like on an atomic level.

Stiles fumbles with his phone, barking at Siri to dial Lydia and incredibly enough she gets it right on the first try. The Force is strong in him today it seems.

“This better be good,” snaps Lydia after it rings for a tortuously long time.

“Hello to you, too,” replies Stiles with all the dry sarcasm he can muster, which for the record, is a lot. “I have an urgent Wild Hunt related question, which I believe trumps your makeout session with Parrish.”

Lydia clucks her tongue, sighs and probably rolls her eyes. Stiles can’t be sure, but it seems likely. She’s not protesting, though so he knows his guess was right. Perhaps he’s both a Jedi and a Seer?

“Fine,” she agrees, and Stiles can hear the rustle of paper in the background. “What specifically do you want to know. I’ve got a lot of information here, some of it wildly variable in it’s descriptions depending on country of origin. You need to narrow it down for me.”

Stiles curses as a wayward pedestrian disregarding the traffic lights wanders into the street, but manages to stop in time. By the screeching of his brakes, he’s now down to bare metal and will need to replace the brake pads. Somehow he doubts duct tape will do the trick.

“Move, move, move!” he barks, waving his hand angrily at the slouching preteen with a headset so large it looks like it’s made out of dumbbells, drags his feet across the asphalt.

“Excuse me?”

“Not you, Lyds. Sorry.”

The kid finally reaches his destination and Stiles skids away in a cloud of dark blue plume. It might match the blue of his Jeep magnificently, but it tell tales of unwanted oil leaks. Just what he needs.

“I’m not sure what I’m more concerned about,” drawls Lydia. “The state of your car or your driving.”

Stiles chooses to ignore the barb. He’s in dire need of information.

“You mentioned the Wild Hunt the other day,” he starts. “I know they take people, but is there anything about the world around them forgetting they even existed?”

Lydia’s silent for a few beats, but Stiles knows better than to repeat his question. She’s probably conferring with her notes, but he’s antsy and apprehensive, and wishes she’d just hurry the fuck -

“Okay,so I’ve just skimmed through all my notes on the Hunt, and -”

“ _Seriously_?” Stiles can’t help but interrupt. He’s seen Lydia’s Wild Hunt stack. It’s enormous! “How is that possible in twenty seconds? Can you read at warp speed?”

Lydia sighs so profoundly it echoes over the phone.

“No, I have a photographic memory and a rather excellent archiving system. What I’m trying to say if you’ll stop interrupting, is that the Wild Hunt normally doesn’t include any mention of memories being taken. Then again, if that was the case, the ones reporting on this phenomena wouldn’t remember witnessing it, so with that kind of reasoning we just have an endless loop of theories and hypothesis and no evidence, so for all we know it could be. We just don’t know. Or rather, don’t remember.”

“Well, that was entirely unhelpful,” mumbles Stiles, cutting the corner to his street just a tad to steeply, skidding onto the sidewalk with the rear tires.

“However,” continues Lydia, unperturbed. “There’s recorded account of memory wiping worth mentioning. It’s documented in the Argent bestiary, which is probably where you came across it. One Argent ancestor claims the memories of the people taken by the hunt are erased. No one believed him, and it was never proved.”

“Why not? I thought hunters were used to freaky shit. Why question this?”

Lydia actually laughs. “You’ll get a kick out of this,” she chortles. “He claimed to have escaped their clutches. Totally unheard of, naturally. That’s the one thing everyone agree about across all the variations of the legend - if the hunt takes you, you’re fucked, and gone for good. He however, allegedly came back. But no one remembered him, and thus didn’t believe his story.”

“I should’ve known,” mutters Stiles, dread spreading down his spine. “This doesn’t bode well.”

“This doesn’t bode well for what?”

Lydia’s voice has taken on that intense tinge that tells him her curiosity is pinged to a solid 10, and she’s got a pencil in hand already, for notes.

“For _whom_ ,” corrects Stiles darkly, pulling into their driveway. “This doesn’t bode well for Ben.”

“Ben who?” asks Lydia, confirming his growing suspicion given the events of earlier today when he went to visit the kid.

 

—————————————

 

“Hi,” says Stiles, bestowing the stern woman behind the counter with his most winning smile. She looks like the poster child for your stereotypical librarian - tight bun, horn-rimmed glasses, pursed mouth, tightly buttoned blouse and sensible shoes. Okay, so technically Stiles can’t _see_ her shoes, but he’ll be sorely disappointed if they aren’t brown, boring and with an economical sole.

Predictably his too-wide grin doesn’t have a positive effect. If anything, her mouth purses further, brining it dangerously close to a beak. If Professor MacGonagall have any Muggle relatives, this right here is probably one of them.

“I have an appointment,” he clarifies when she makes no indication she’s heard him. “Sheriff Stilinski called it in. I’m here to see Benjamin Presley Wilburn the third. Or Turd as I affectionately like to call him. The Turdster.”

He makes some wannabe cool hip hop gestures that fails to impress. Stiles mentally cringes. It’s fortunate no real life hip hoppers are around to witness the display. That’s possibly how gang wars starts.

“Sign in,” snaps - Dolores. Stiles has just noticed her name plate and he’s both elated and disappointed. Her last name is Dawson, so sadly no obvious relation to his favorite magic professor he never had. On the other hand Dolores is the perfect librarian name. Was little Dolores’ fate sealed upon birth with that kind of name? There’s power in names after all, Harry Potter has taught him that. During sleepless nights Stiles seriously wonders if JK Rowling is in the know about the things that go bump in the night, and if so could Hogwarts actually be real? It would explain a lot, and if so was it Dementors that came to whisk away Ben's family? Probably not, but it would be awesome if reality and fiction suddenly were to blend together. 

Stiles snaps out of it when Dolores brandishes a pen in his face with ill-concealed impatience. He hastily scrawls his name into the registry and she waves him towards a waiting area. After leafing through a three year copy of Time magazine, another woman calls him. Thankfully, she seems much nicer, all smiles and dimpled cheeks.

“Hi, I’m Katelyn,” she introduces herself with an enthusiastic handshake. “You’re the Sheriff’s son, right?”

She beams when Stiles nods in confirmation. “Wonderful. You were with Ben at the station. Talked a bit to him if I recall correctly. That made a world of difference, I think. He’s actually mentioned you a few times. I think he looks forward to seeing you. Come this way.”

Stiles follows in a slight daze. After the iciness of Dolores, this is like being hit with a sugar rush.

Katelyn keeps up a steady stream of inane chatter as they weave in and out of corridors, and finally emerges in a small garden at the back of the facility. Stiles easily spots Ben, sitting alone on a bench staring forlornly at a couple of rowdy boys messing around on the swing set.

“He’s all yours,” trills Katelyn with a beam, and all but skips back inside the building. Stiles is left somewhat at a loss, not really knowing how to proceed. He wants to learn more about the scary dudes on horseback, and Ben is his only source, but he hasn’t exactly hashed out a solid strategy for how to go about it. He vaguely entertained bringing Lydia, but had quickly dismissed it. Lydia is a certifiable genius, but she strikes him as someone with less than desirable bed manners, and he just can’t picture her as someone who’s good with kids.

Before Stiles can work himself into a panic, Ben spots him. The grin spreading across his face is more than Stiles could even hope for. He thought he’d scared him off for good that night at the station, but the kid is clearly made of tougher stuff than anticipated.

“Hey,” he grins when Stiles saddles up to him. “You came back to see me. Did you bring candy?”

Stiles blanks. Fuck! He should’ve brought sweets. Since he dumped most of the content from the station’s vending machine at the kid last time it’s no wonder he’s expecting treats.

“Sorry,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve got some mint mojito gum if you like,” he offers sheepishly. The kid eyes it wearily, then shrugs and accepts it before settling down on the bench again. Like the last time Stiles saw him, he seems to curl in on himself, like he’s trying to make himself invisible and small.

“You okay?” he asks, sitting down next to him. Ben shrugs, casting futile glances towards the swing set again. The boys from before are gone.

“You wanna try the swing?” he asks, jerking his head towards it. “We could see who can go the highest. I’m a former Beacon Hills kindergarten champion, so prepare to be schooled.”

Ben shakes his head violently, looking fearful. “Alright, no swings,” says Stiles. “We’ll just chill here, okay?”

A minute or two goes by in awkward silence. Ben chews the gum noisily while Stiles tries to come up with a good way to ask about his knight encounter. In the end, Ben broaches the subject and saves him the trouble.

“Have the cops found my parents yet? The people here won’t talk about it,” he adds sullenly. “They think I’m crazy. I heard a doctor say I’m making up stories to deal with what really happened. I’m not making it up!”

“I know, I believe you.”

Ben grabs Stiles’ hand, gripping it tightly. “I’m glad you came. I hate it here. Can I come home with you?”

He stares up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, and god dammit! Stiles’ heart breaks for this kid trapped here in a facility with no one in his corner.

“Don’t you have relatives to stay with? I thought your grandma was coming to get you?”

Ben looks less than enthused at the thought. “She’s not coming until next week. She broke her leg a few weeks back and can’t travel with the cast. She’ll get me when it comes off.”

“I can come and see you a few times a week if you want, until she arrives,” Stiles offers. Ben’s grip on his hand intensifies.

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure. If you want.”

Ben’s head nods. “I want that.”

Feeling both oddly warm and encouraged by Ben’s trust in him, Stiles decides to plunge ahead to the reason for his visit.

“Could you perhaps tell me a bit more about what happened when your parents and sister disappeared? You said something about knights on horses.”

Ben stiffens.

“You don’t have to,” Stiles hastily reassures. “No pressure. It’ll be helpful though. You know, for the police.”

“I can’t,” whispers Ben, voice thin and shrill.

“Why not?”

Stiles notices that Ben’s back to staring at the swing set again. It’s abandoned and empty, surrounded by a row of trees and some thick bushes. For a split second Stiles thinks he can sense movement there, but when he looks again, there’s nothing.

“I’m scared they’ll find me.”

Stiles can hardly make out the words. What he knows without a shadow of a doubt is that this little boy is scare out of his mind.

“They’ll find you? The knights?”

Ben nods. His skin’s gone pale, eyes wide, breath erratic.

“I think they’re looking for me. I think I was supposed to disappear with my family.”

“What makes you think that?”

Stiles can’t believe his luck. Either he’s some kind of kid whisperer, or Ben’s the most trusting boy ever. Either way, he’s getting information he’d thought he would have to drag out of him, served on a silver platter.

“They shot at me, too,” admits Ben, sounding so guilty it breaks Stiles’ heart. “The others disappeared, but I hid behind my tablet. The beam didn’t get me.”

He grabs hold of the well-used tablet next to him, and swipes it open. “I haven’t shown this to anyone,” he says hesitantly, tapping a few times, then handing it over. Stiles accepts it, heart beating unnaturally fast. The screen shows a grainy image clearly taken from the backseat of a car. The front seats are empty, but through the windshield a few shadowy creatures can be seen. Masked, billowing capes, and just like Ben claimed, on horseback.

“Shit!” exclaims Stiles.

Ben recounts the tale again, but after a few minutes it’s clear Stiles has gotten as much out of him as he can. He sends the images to his phone, talks to Ben a bit about Pokemon, then leaves with the promise of coming back in a few days, this time with his collection of Pokemon cards.

Without the perky Katelyn to guide him, it’s hard to find his way back through the building, but eventually Stiles ends up back in front of Dolores’ sinister visage. She glares at him over her horn-rimmed glasses, with the sneer of a Elizabethan era noble woman.

“What do you want?” she barks. Stiles quells the urge to spew out something condescending and witty and instead gestures to the registry.

“I signed in about half an hour ago to see Ben. Do I need to sign out before I leave?”

Dolores stares at him as if he’d spoken in high Valyrian. Or Simmish. If she was a Sim, her overhead crystal would be bright red.

“Is that a no?” he asks tentatively. Dolores glares from him, to the registry and back again, blinking owlishly.

“Your name?”

“Stiles Stilinski. I was literally here 30 minutes ago. I have it on good authority I’m rather unforgettable.”

Dolores clearly doesn’t appreciate his brand of humor.

“I’m calling security,” she informs him flatly, grabbing the phone. “No one should be here without properly signing in.”

“Which I did!”

Dolores snorts. “I hardly think so. I’ve been here all day, and I do not remember you signing in.”

Stiles grabs the registry, ignoring her' outraged cries, skimming down the rows, eager to prove Dolores Umbridge just how right he is, and how very wrong she is. Only, he’s not right at all. His entry is gone. Erased.

“What the fuck!” He glares at her, unable to fathom why she’s taken the effort to remove his entry.

“I’ve just been here to see Benjamin Presley Wilburn the third. I signed in. The Sheriff of Beacon Hills County called ahead to okay my visit.”

Dolores bares her coffee-stained teeth in a cruel smile, beckoning to someone behind him.

“There’s no one named Benjamin Presley Wilburn the third at this facility. There’s no Benjamin at all here, for that matter.”

A foreboding notion hits him. Stiles whirls around and expertly dodges the elderly security guard, heading back the way he came. He weaves in and out of corridors, down a flight of stairs and finally ends up outside. The swing set is still abandoned. So is the bench where Ben was just sitting. The only thing left is the tablet and the mint mojito gum wrapper.

 

————————————

 

  
“Who’s Ben?” repeats Lydia, her tone suggesting she’s both curios and annoyed that Stiles is bothering her with this.

“Never mind,” mumbles Stiles, hanging up before she can utter another word. He’s already home anyway, and his dad will be the final nail in the proverbial coffin. He doesn’t want to be right, but it’s still better to be right than ignorant and blindsided when shit gets worse. Because in Beacon Hills shit always gets worse. Fast.

He finds his father outside behind the house, wearing his “You've cat to be kitten me” t-shirt that once upon a time used to be red. Now it’s a brownish orange which is a very unbecoming color on his complexion. He’s on his knees fighting a losing battle with the weeds in the flower bed. He goes through this ritual once a year around Claudia’s birthday. It’s tradition, sad as it might be.

“Hand me the shears, will you,” demands his dad, wiping a soiled hand across his forehead. It leaves a dirty stripe in its wake.

“You do know it’s not normal to use shears on that, right? If you just cut it down, it’ll grow back in two days. You need to get to the root of the matter.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gardner, I’m aware of that,” snarks his dad. Stiles grins. It’s the Stilinski family motto. More or less. He hands his dad the shears, though. It’s tradition, too.

“You’re late. I thought you were supposed to help me with this mess. It’s -”

“Tradition,” interjects Stiles, nodding. “I know. I’m here now. Besides, you were the one to put the call in to Child Services getting me in to see Ben today. I’m totally blameless.”

He holds up his hands, adding the Bambi eyes for maximum effect. It usually gets him out of messes.

“Oh, stop looking at me like that,” admonishes his dad, huffing in mock annoyance. “Your mom used to look at me like that, too. You’ve got the same damned doe-eyed look. Even when I know you’re full of shit, I just can’t be mad.”

“I’m adorable,” declares Stiles.

“You’re deplorable and sneaky, it’s what you are. Now, what’s this about Child Services?”

Stiles’ heart sinks.

“Ben, dad. The kid from the other day. His parents disappeared along with his sister. He was found alone in the car. You had me babysit him at the station while you went out to the crime scene. He claimed shadowy knights on horseback did it.”

The sheriff stares at Stiles like he’s just told the world’s dumbest tall tale.

“Have you’ve been marathoning Lord of the Rings again?”

“What?! NO!!”

Stiles scoffs, heart hammering a beat or two faster than strictly necessary. Derek had made the exact same silly joke.

“I don’t remember any case like that, Stiles,” says his dad, now back to pruning the weeds with renewed intensity. “Are you getting enough sleep these days? Nightmares? Hallucinations? You need to tell me if that’s the case. I don’t want any repeats of -, you know.”

Stiles does know. Too well.

“Forget it,” he mumbles, shrugging off his shirt and dumping down beside his dad, holding out a hand. “Pass me the forky thing, I’ll get to work on this end.”

“Good boy.”

 

**

 

It takes them close to two hours for the flowerbed to look somewhat presentable. In two weeks it’ll look neglected again and by next year, the cycle will repeat. For now they’re content, proud and enjoying a cold beverage in quiet solitude camped out in a pair of deck chairs in dire need of a paint job. The sheriff is reading the newspaper while Stiles is engrossed in a document Lydia has uploaded to the Bestiary database. It’s a summary of the Wild Hunt research comparing and contrasting the variations across the globe.

It’s mostly things he already knows, and the more he reads the less he likes this supernatural kidnapping squad. He’s pretty sure they can add “wiping memories” to the list, which basically means they’re probably much more widespread and active than recorded. If people can’t remember them sweeping through town and kidnapping poor souls, then it’s hard to record it at all. It’s the perfect cover-up.

“It’s like the Men in Black, only evil,” he grumbles under his breath, adding a few comments of his own to the mix. A thought suddenly hits him with the velocity of a comet.

_Damnatio Memoriae._

The beast had left that message behind when Stiles and Scott had tried to track it. Purged from memory. What if it wasn’t talking about itself? Not the fact that it was forgotten and purged, but rather what is coming - the Wild Hunt. It’s a jarring thought, and enough to shake Stiles’ whole belief system. His first instinct is to call Derek, which is - odd. And yet something that’s becoming more and more natural as time progresses.

“I’m gonna get another beer,” declares his dad, rising from the chair and breaking Stiles’ line of thought. Which, you know, is probably for the beast.

“You want another soda?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good, thanks.”

He’s not of course. Good, that is, but he doubts adding more sugar to his system will help matters much. Stiles presses the Derek thing to the back of his mind, concentrating back on the Hunt. It’s clear that everyone except him seems to have forgotten all about Ben. Which begs the question of why. He skims further down Lydia’s file, stopping with a gasp in the second to last paragraph.

_It’s generally thought that if you witness any members of the hunt you’ll be marked for harvest._

Ben had seen them! Had seen the masked creatures on horseback, and a few days later he was gone as well. Now, no one could remember him or his family. No one except Stiles.

_I’ve also seen them!_

The realization fails to scare him as much as it should. Stiles is remarkably calm as he opens the imagine Ben had taken with his tablet. Stares at the grainy contours, running scenarios in his mind, each more disturbing than the next. Without a second thought, he does the only thing he can do to keep the people he cares about safe. He deletes the image.

“Excuse me!”

His dad has returned, a beer in one hand and the other pointing rather accusatory at Stiles.

“What? I didn’t steal your seat or your precious pistachios. Sheesh.” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“This is private property,” says his dad, face as deadpan and serious as Derek’s had been that first time they met in the woods, where the exact same words were uttered. Stiles can’t help but snicker.

“I know, sir.” He adds a salute just for the heck of it. If this is some sort of dad joke, it’s his lamest one yet.

“I suggest you leave, or I’ll be forced to arrest you for trespassing. I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but I’m the sheriff of Beacon Hills.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” smiles Stiles, shaking his head. Then, abruptly freezes, gripped by a terrifying thought.

What if his dad’s not joking? What if he genuinely can’t remember who Stiles is?

Out of the corner of his eye Stiles catches sight of a dark shadow. Out of nowhere, and close enough that it feels as if he’s surrounded by it, the sound of horses hooves assault his ears. As panic blooms from the center of his chest, all Stiles can think is the desperate mantra of “Dad mustn’t see them!”.

Without thought, he leaps forward, pushing his dad as hard as he can, making him sprawl out on the grass, the bottle of beer breaking as it hits the patio tiles. Then he runs as fast as he can towards the shadows, rounding the corner of the garage, safely out of his dad’s line of sight.

The last thing he thinks about before the masked hunter points a strange looking gun at him, is that it’s a blessing Derek’s far far away. At least this time he’s out of harms way when shit hits the fan. And if anyone should be taken it’s him. He’s expendable, and the world will keep spinning even without Stiles Stilinski.

Then he’s gone, the memories of him erased with him.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lame attempts at Spanish in this chapter. You can blame any errors on my and Google Translate's combined incompetence.


	13. Chapter 13

Derek runs. Across fields, through groves of trees, crossing creeks. He runs until he’s back at the bluff. The same spot he’d camped out on with Cora a few weeks back. It feels comfortable here. Safe. He curls up underneath a huge tree, then falls asleep, exhausted.

Derek stays there for days. He never shifts back to human form, preferring the simplicity of being a wolf. It’s easier that way. Less complexity of emotion, just instincts and baser needs.

Of course this isn't a lasting solution. In the end, Derek can’t ignore it anymore, even as an animal. He is acting childish. It is time to face the music, or rather face his own feelings. Perhaps Cora is right. That he needs to talk to someone. Perhaps even to her, if she’s in a manageable mood. Derek’s not equipped to deal with teasing. Or more nonsense about whistling.

When he finally slinks back onto the farm, his metaphorical tail between his legs, it’s been almost three days since he fled the Silvas' kitchen like a prepubescent child. Derek feels silly and embarrassed. He is a grown man, and yet he ran off like a moody teenager the moment he was confronted with, well - difficult emotions. Not exactly a shining moment. He dreads the conversations he knows is coming, steels himself, knowing there's no escape. 

As always the farm is brimming with activity, neighing horses, the song of playful voices conversing in Spanish, and the cackling of hens. Derek manages to get almost to the main house before anyone notices his arrival.

“Bienvenido de nuevo, Derek.”

It’s Jesus, Cora’s boyfriend. Derek bows his head, feeling both sheepish and embarrassed. Jesus had a front row seat to his childish and silly display. He honestly likes Jesus, and finds he doesn’t want him to think ill of him.

“Hola,” he mumbles in reply, tipping a finger to his forehead in a halfhearted salute.

“You were gone longer than expected. Good to see you’re back in one piece.”

Jesus looks genuinely relieved, throwing Derek a warm smile over one shoulder as he walks off towards the stables.

Strange.

Derek stares after him, forehead creased in confusion. The way he phrased things, it sounded as if he thought Derek’s been away on a planned trip. Things couldn’t be further from the truth. If so, he’d at least pack a change of clothes if nothing else. In his haste to get away from the absurd accusations of whistling and being in love, Derek had simply shrugged off what he was wearing and shifted. He’s been running around in wolf-form for close to 72 hours, and had ducked into the barn to transform and find something to wear. All he could scrounge up was an old overall, the knees worn almost white, and an old and smelly t-shirt. Still, it’s better than walking into the house in the buff. Sofia and Isadora would probably attack him like hungry hyenas and leave nothing behind except the remnants of his frayed soul.

Encouraged by Jesus' reaction, Derek walks ahead his spirits lifted. Perhaps this means Cora won't be so merciless after all? Perhaps she’s glossed over the reasons for his great escape with Jesus and the others? If so, maybe the damage isn’t as huge as he fears. Derek feels a warm tug at his heart. It’s still foreign and takes him aback, but gradually - glacially - he’s learning to recognize her for what she is.

_Family._

 Derek manages to avoid bumping into anyone on the first floor, which in itself is a small miracle, and is beginning to believe he can make it to his room unnoticed.

“Der-bear!”

Better think again.

Derek pivots slowly, taking in the full force of Cora’s widest grin, her eyes alight in evident mirth.

“Derek, what on earth are you wearing? You look like a scarecrow!”

She bounds up to him, spinning him around like he’s some sort of Southern Belle, passing last inspection before her first Cotillion.

“You went hiking wearing this?”

She’s doubled over now, clutching her stomach. Before Derek can get a word in edgewise, she’s got her phone out, snapping a series of less than flattering pictures.

“Cora, don’t you dare post any of those,” he threatens, making grabs for her phone, but she’s too quick.

“Sorry, too late,” she sing-songs, skipping down the corridor so she’s safely out of reach. Derek can hear the whoosh of a text being sent. He’s almost scared to ask who the recipient is, although he can probably make an educated guess, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

Cora’s phone dings with a reply and Derek braces himself for the worst.

“Lydia thinks you look like a Hillbilly and asks you kindly to burn the attire once it’s removed from your body. I think that’s sage advice.” Cora nods, face folded in mock seriousness.

“As long as Lydia doesn’t share that picture with anyone, and especially not Stiles, I’ll flambe this, no problem,” he mutters, dodging past his sister and opening the door to his room. Predictably she follows, because privacy is a concept she’s yet to grasp.

“ _Styles_? You’ve got _no_ style brother. None. Only too-tight jeans and Henley’s. That’s not style, that’s laziness. Lydia says it’s lucky your hot.”

Derek throws her a withering glare, dodging into the bathroom to discard of the rags. He’ll save the shower for later. He reemerges half a minute later, wearing basket shorts and a t-shirt.

“Like I said, no style,” concludes Cora with a tut, snapping another photo, probably also for Lydia’s benefit. He’s suddenly very glad he’s thousands of miles way from the petite redhead. Derek doesn’t know Lydia all that well, but the little he saw both scared and amazed him.

“See how much I don’t care,” he snaps, locating his phone and setting it to charge. “Besides, I wasn’t bemoaning my lack of style. I was talking about Stiles, and how he doesn’t need to see my scarecrow impersonation. He'll never let me live it down.”

Cora blinks at him owlishly for a bit, cocking her head to the side like a confounded cat.

“What the hell is a Stiles?”

Derek simply glares unamused, waiting for her to crack a smile. It doesn’t happen.

So, this is his punishment. Derek understands now. It’s the reverse teasing. Instead of lording it over him, rubbing his nose in the utter childishness of his disappearing act, she’s turning the tables. Acting as if it didn’t happen. Like they have no clue who Stiles even is. Knowing Cora, she probably has everyone clued in to this charade. That would explain Jesus’ behavior outside as well.

“Very funny,” he says, awarding Cora with his most condescending eye-roll. It’s quite the sight.

“It is?” She stares at him blankly. “I don’t get it,” she adds, sounding oddly sincere. “Is this some kind of reference I’m not familiar with? What’s this “stiles”? Some odd creature?”

He’s tempted to reply “sort of”, because truthfully Stiles is a bit odd, but he wont’ give her the satisfaction. Funnily enough Derek can’t really detect any skips in her heartbeat indicating deception. Still, it’s entirely possible to get around that if you know the tricks. Cora is sneaky enough to pull it off. In her own backwards way she probably is telling the truth. Precious few people actually “get Stiles”. Derek’s not entirely sure he does either, but he’s oddly drawn in by the guy, eager to peel away more layers. To learn more. To get to know him even better. It’s something that scares and fascinates him in equal measures.

“Well?” prompts Cora when Derek fails to reply. He shrugs.

“Forget it,” he mutters, not really knowing in that moment how on the nail that statement is.

“You’re making less sense than usual.”

Cora’s rapidly falling deep into overprotective sister mode. “When was the last time you ate? You must be starving,” she declares, pushing him out the door. “I know for a fact there’s leftover casserole in the fridge. Let’s heat it up and eat it all before the rest come in for afternoon snacks.”

Derek allows himself to be steered, and soon finds himself mindlessly eating said casserole while Cora babbles on and on about the things he’s missed in his absence. Not once does the conversation even tangentially graze the topic of Stiles Stilinski, whistling, or love. Somehow that puts Derek on even higher alert, feeling shiftier than Madeye Moody.

After a while more of the Silva pack filters in and all of them welcome him back with open arms. It’s all very nice and still something keeps nagging at the back of Derek’s mind. Like a persistent mosquito angling for the perfect spot.

Agustina descends on him like an overprotective mama bear, showering his face with kisses and promptly commandeering a slew of the pack members to report for kitchen duty to prepare a glorious meal in honor of his return. Derek blushes when it becomes obvious she’s preparing steaks again, the very same meal he ran out of 72 hours earlier. No one mentions it, and Derek’s contemplating submitting them all for Emmy considerations.

Sadly, Isadora and Sofia seem to have forgotten all about their mom’s orders to leave him alone. By the time dessert is served, they’ve got a foot each curled around his calves and are purring all kinds of disturbing things into his ears. Between this and everyone feigning ignorance about his runaway act, Derek truly feels the punishment is about to surpass the crime.

Thankfully, he manages to ditch the twisted sisters, and escapes back to his room as soon as it’s socially acceptable. Derek locks the door for good measure. He’s not putting it past any of them to try and sneak into his bed during the night. He takes the long-awaited shower, before snuggling into his blankets, the phone cradled between his hands. It’s fully charged, and yet the notifications depressingly lacking.

There’s a Facebook friend request from Mason, and a snap from Scott that he’s not sure what to make of. Probably sent more out of obligation than actually want, which sums up their relationship nicely. It’s blurry and looks like it’s taken by a campfire. There’s no caption.

Nothing from Stiles.

He’s not disappointed. Obviously not. Derek scoffs, annoyed at his own need to justify and mentally comment on these things. It’s strange, though. Stiles usually texts or send Snaps at the drop of a hat. If Stiles is bored, he’ll send a snap. If Stiles is excited, he’ll send a snap.

With beating heart Derek pulls up his favorites, frowning when he can’t find Stiles’ name.

“Fucking Cora,” he mutters, secretly amazed at the length she’s gone to keep up the rouse. Thankfully, Derek knows the number by heart and hits dial. As the call connects he can’t help smiling, chest warm. That feeling is quickly erased, when all he gets is an automated message.

_“The number you have dialed is not in service.”_

What the hell?

Derek tries again, same result. After the eleventh call, he throws his phone away, worry spreading like mold.

Eventually, he drifts off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of Stiles trapped on the other side of an invisible barrier, unable to cross over, his voice muffled and eyes wide with fear.

 

 

****~****

 

Stiles wakes to the chirping of birds and a persistent ray of sunshine dancing across his nose. He’s feeling strangely rested. In fact, he can’t remember he last time he woke like this, of his own accord and to the trill of birds. Come to think of it he can’t even remember going to bed.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes lazily, taking in the contours of his room. Something feels off, but he brushes the feeling aside. He’s not fully awake yet, and he’s waking up peacefully - that’s about as off as it gets, which is just sad.

The remnants of a dream still lingers. Something about a creepy dude, masked of course, on horseback no less. He’d been pointing a gun at him. Had fired it, too. That’s probably why he woke up. Good thing too, Stiles muses. There are lots of tales about how if you die in your dream, you also die in real life, and that’s one sad way to go.

Stiles pulls the covers aside, putting his feet down and yelps when they hit the bare, cold floor. Someone’s moved the carpet. It’s still there, just further away than normal. From this angle it looks smaller and the color is slightly off, but then again the blinds are still down. Everything in the room is cast in an odd soft glow, and it’s probably playing tricks on him.

He hops jerkily over to the carpet, spinning around in place to find where he’s dumped his clothes last night. Only, he can’t find them. Not so much as a stray sock in sight. Frowning, Stiles takes in the details of his room, feeling a foreboding notion settle over him like an icy shadow. It’s his room. Only not. Everything is slightly wrong.

It’s tidy for one. That never happens. The murder board is also nowhere in sight. It's now scattered with info about various options for schools and not mysteries, but still he needs it. Perhaps his dad has wheeled it out to have the room cleaned? That sounds like a plausible explanation, but it falls short when the myriad of other strange inconsistencies start to pile up.

The lampshade is the wrong color. His gaming chair is gone. The printer looks outdated, the same with the CD-player and his bookshelf is full of books he’s never seen before. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. The thing that really sinks him, just as hard and just as tragically as the Titanic, comes through the door a moment later, wearing an apron and a huge smile.

His mother.

 

  
***

 

When he opens his eyes again, his dad is smiling down on him, eyes clouded with worry.

“Hey, son. You alright?”

Stiles groans. His head hurts. When he tries to sit up, black spots dance before his eyes, and he quickly sinks back onto his pillow.

“I’m fine,” he croaks, because that’s his go to line for everything. His father pins him with a unimpressed glare.

“Clearly you’re not, so cut the crap. Let me take a wild guess. You’re hungover after staying out all night with that no good friend of yours. I’ve never trusted people who drive Porches. They’re much the same as people who owns BMWs. They’re like hemorrhoids. Nine out of ten assholes got them.”

Stiles bursts out laughing despite the absurdity of the situation. He’s probably still dreaming anyway. After all, the last thing he remembers is opening his door to see his mother standing before him.

“Good one, dad,” he chortles. “Now, pinch me so I can wake from this nightmare. You almost made it sound like I’ve been hanging out with Jackson Whittemore. He’s the only one I’ve ever known to own a Porsche.”

His dad simply stares at him, face contorted in what Stiles recognizes as his cop frown.

“Please tell me you’re not on drugs,” he says. “I know Coach Finstock suspected Jackson of taking steroids back in junior year. I could never find any evidence, but I wouldn’t be surprised. If he’s got you hooked on something, I’ll slap him and his lawyer dad with enough charges to sink his practice.”

“Chill, dad. I don’t do drugs or Jackson Whittemore. Both are bad for you.”

Stiles gently massages the bump on the back of his head, grimacing at the pain. Perhaps he’s got a concussion? That will explain some of the weird stuff going on. Perhaps he’s hallucinating this entire conversation? In fact, that would be preferable to the alternative.

“Glad we agree on something for a change. No matter, you’ve clearly been out doing stuff you shouldn’t, so I’m gonna suggest you stay in your room the rest of the weekend.”

If that’s a suggestion, Stiles is not keen on a straight up threat. Something about the strained lines on his father’s forehead worries him.

“Sure,” he agrees with a slight nod. “I’ll play hermit for a few days. Catch up on some Zs.”

“And clean the gutters.”

Stiles groans. After the whole scaffolding incident with Donovan he’s not too keen on ladders or heights in general.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do. Also, your mother needs help weeding the flowerbeds. Make sure to offer her a hand.”

As if summoned, Claudia Stilinski breezes into the room, holding a tray with what smells like homemade chicken soup. Stiles sits frozen in place, drinking in the sight of her.

_I’m definitely still dreaming._

It’s the only possible explanation. It’s either that, or he’s been portaled to a parallel universe. A universe where his mother is still alive, and his other self, for unfathomable reasons, regularly and willingly spends time gallivanting about with Jackson Whittemore.

Wait a minute!

With a violent lurch it all comes back to him. The Wild Hunt. Ben’s missing parents. How no one suddenly remembered Ben except for Stiles. How the riders had appeared out of nowhere, pointing a gun at him.

_Damnatio memoriae._

It’s suddenly as obvious as it’s frightening. He’s been purged from memory in his own life, and for reasons unknown is now trapped in this bizarre version of it.

Well, Stiles thinks, still staring hypnotized at the woman so alike how he remembers his mother, and yet entirely different. Out of all the possible fates that could befall him, this doesn’t seem so bad. Jackson Whittemore excepted, of course.

 

  
***

 

Time seems to move differently here. It jerks ahead in spurts. One moment the sun is blazing, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, night falls. Stiles sleeps more than usual, and experiences the same disoriented confusion every time he wakes. The more time passes, the more he notices the differences, too. Some stuff are subtle, like a slightly different shade on his favorite t-shirt. Other things are more blatant.

Like how he and Scott aren’t even friends. Stiles learns this the hard way when he calls him up, bored out of his mind. Alarm bells are chiming when he’s not to be found in his contacts list, but her remembers the number and calls anyway.

“Hello?”

Scott’s voice is questioning, like he doesn’t know who’s calling.

“Hey, dude. Come save me, I’m bored to tears.”

Stiles is sprawled out on his bed, cataloging all the ways the posters and pictures on his walls are wrong. He lost count somewhere in the higher 70s.

“Who’s this?”

Yeah, that’s not promising.

“Dude, it’s Stiles. Wanna hang out?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Stiles can hear Scott breathing quite elaborately on the other end. He sounds like he used to, way back when, before he was bitten and still a hopeless asthmatic.

“You’re joking, right?” Scott sounds apprehensive and suspicious.

“Bro, you’re not a werewolf in this world, are you?” blurts Stiles before he has a chance to weigh his words.

“Now I know you’re joking. Stop bothering me!”

Scott hangs up. It’s bad enough being stuck in a parallel universe, but if he can’t rely on Scott to help him out, then he’s not sure where to start. He’s sure about one thing, though. He needs to find a way back, the sooner the better.

 

*

 

Sadly, that proves more difficult than even he could imagine, which says a lot. Stiles Stilinski is after all known for his creative (and some might say paranoid) disposition. In order to find a way back, Stiles needs resources that can’t be found in this room. There’s not a supernatural reference to be found, and alarmingly his laptop lacks internet connection. When he asks for it, his mother simply shakes her head with a fond smile, like he’s asked her for something unthinkable, like a replica of the Voyager shuttle.

Basically, he needs to leave. Stiles reckons his best option is Deaton. The man is like an enigma and more myth than man even in his timeline or world or whatever, but given his druid disposition, Stiles is willing to bank that at least parts of him will stay constant.

Only he can’t. Leave, that is. His dad had demand he clean the gutters and assist his mom with the weeding, but none of these chores are mentioned again. When Stiles asks about them, they simply shrug it off and says it can wait until the next day. Only, Stiles is pretty sure the next day has come and gone at least sixteen times already.

So, naturally, he tries to sneak out in the dead of night. There’s never been a door Stiles couldn’t get through, anyway. He’s famously hording keys to everything, and when he can’t get a hold of that, he simply picks the lock. Only, his door doesn’t have one. No lock, and yet impossible to open. When he tries to pick at the hinges, they melt away before his eyes, the door bleeding into the wall like liquid paint.

It’s weird. Stiles should probably have panicked the moment he got here, but for some reason he’s felt calm and certain he’d find a solution soon enough. This however, is the proverbial nail that forces him straight into full-blown fear.

Desperately he bangs his fist against the wall, only to be zapped back with a sting. Like he’s hit a electric force field. Sort of like when supernatural beings try to cross mountain ash. The wall ripples from where his fist impacts, and with it the illusions of a wall falls away. The colors mute, a sort of gray mist seem to rise up from the floor. Stiles spins around, heart threatening to escape his chest. The room is still there, only it looks abandoned. Neglected. Like it’s in a house that’s been unoccupied and left untouched for years and years.

When he turns back towards the barrier, he yelps. The surface appears almost like water in slight motion. He can make out images on the other end, albeit a bit blurry. He can see the hallway outside his room, only there’s no door. Instead there seems to some sort of frame hanging on the wall, and right where his door used to be is a huge chest of drawers.

“Hello!” he calls, pressing his face as close to the barrier as he dares without actually touching it. “Can anyone hear me?”

Nothing.

Stiles stays there for hours and hours, alternating between calling out and listening intently. Then, eventually he detects movement. His heart skips several beats when the blurry outline of his father materializes at the top of the stairs. He’s unbuttoning his shirt, heading for the bathroom, probably fresh off a shift.

“Dad! Dad! Hey, dad, I’m here!! Can you see me? Can you hear me? Dad?!”

Sheriff Stilinski walks by, not throwing so much as a glance in Stiles’ direction. He continues to call out, but without result. He’s trapped, invisible and forgotten.

He slumps to the floor, voice raspy and throat sore. He lies there for a long time, not bothering to move. It’s tempting to just give up. Just accept his fate and let the masked riders come to do whatever they want with him, providing they have a reason for taking him and the others at all.

Still, for some reason he’s not really sure he can explain even if he wants to, Stiles' lips forms a name, whispering it into the misty room, over and over, like a mantra. He’s not really expecting a miracle, and yet it soothes him.

_“Derek.”_

 

 

  ****~****

 

 

 

When Derek wakes the next morning, the echo of his own name rings in his ears, like someone’s been calling out for him, barely within earshot. Derek tries to hold on to it, but like dreams do, it soon fades like mist in the sun.

The same tinny and depressing automated message plays when tries to call Stiles again, and Derek quickly escalates from “worried”, via “deeply concerned”, and officially plateaus at “scared shitless” by mid-afternoon.

He corners Cora out on the patio where she’s lounging in the hammock, reading a book.

“Hey, bro,” she greets with a lazy wave. Derek proceeds to pace up and down, huffing like a ticked off bull. After a few minutes Cora snaps her book shut and swings her feet out of the hammock, pinning him with a concerned look.

“Okay, you nervous Nelly, you’ve got my undivided attention. What’s up?”

Derek continues to pace, trapped between anger and worry. Anger at Cora and her stupid prank, and worry that it’s not a prank at all.

“You’re starting to worry me, Derek. Stop pacing and just spit it out, okay!”

Derek glares. There’s no mirth in her eyes, no tug at the corner of her mouth, which - shit. Not a good sign.

“Are you pulling a prank on me?” he asks, voice coming off much more growly than intended. “If so, please stop. I’ll gladly admit to whistling and whatever that might mean, if that’s what it takes for you to end this. Please, just tell me what you did to block his number.”

Derek takes a deep breath, a thought suddenly hitting him. “He’s not in on this, is he? If so I swear I’m gonna rip his throat out with my teeth!”

“Who's in on what? You've lost me.”

Cora looks honestly confused. Derek produces a primal sound, half growl, half whimper.

“ _Stiles!_  Cora, I can’t reach Stiles. His number is out of service. I haven’t talked to him since I ran off when you all teased me about the whistling. I’ve been running around as a wolf for three days, and when I get back everyone’s acting all weird. Weirder yet, there’s no messages from Stiles.”

Derek stops, head bowed, breathing deeply, trying to get his pulse under control. When he finally meets Cora’s eyes, his stomach drops and hits the ground with a painful splat. There’s no way she can fake that look.

“Whistling?” she asks perplexed. “Derek, I - I don’t know what you’re talking about, I honestly don’t. What happened to you while you were away? Did you hit your head? Eat some poisoned berries? You’re not making any sense.”

He stares at her for an eternity, but her heartbeat stays the same. A little elevated, but that’s consistent with worry. Her scent oozes confusion and Derek feels the fabric of his existence rip at the seams.

He falls to his knees, grabbing desperately for his phone. This is some kind of warped magic. There has to be an explanation for it. There just has to! He swipes through his contacts, desperately searching for Stiles’ name and that infuriating selfie, but it’s still gone. Erased, as if by magic.

“Crap!” he breathes, desperation clawing at his mind like feral jackals. 

Cora stares at him, honestly bewildered. She doesn’t even know Stiles all that well, anyway, Derek reasons. Scott on the other hand, he’ll remember his best friend. He has to!

Cora rushes forward, falling down in front of him.

“What are you doing? Derek? I should get Alejandro! He should probably call his emissary. I -.”

She stops her rant when the call connects and Scott’s confused voice on the other end says “Derek?”

“Hey,” breathes Derek, relieved beyond words that at least Scott’s phone is working. That means Beacon Hills hasn’t been swallowed by a hellmouth while he was away.

“It’s been a while,” says Scott tentatively. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. Perfectly understandable, Derek thinks. They’ve never really spoken unless absolutely necessary or shit was hitting the fans.

“Yeah, I - Scott, I can’t get a hold of Stiles. Please tell me he’s alright!”

There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stabs at Derek’s sanity, and when Scott finally answers, his world crumbles.

“Who’s Stiles?”

Derek hangs up, whips his head back and howls.

His behavior is starting to attract attention. Jesus pokes his head out from a second floor window, but Cora shoos him away. When Sofia saunters out, head cocked and ready to “console” the clearly distraught Derek, his sister grabs him by the arm and leads him out past the barn and into the small grove of trees, safely out of earshot.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she mumbles, “but I want to help. Derek, how can I help?”

“Help me find Stiles.”

“I have no clue who or what that is, but it’s clearly important to you, so of course. I’ll help any way I can.”

They stare at each other for a while. Cora’s face etched with worry, but also sincerity. She means what she says. That’s something, and Derek latches onto it for all it’s worth.

A call to Lydia ends with the same miserable result. Derek contemplates calling the sheriff, but somehow the idea of confronting someone with the theory of a son he might not remember over the phone from another continent seems beyond cruel. Instead, he slumps to the ground, trying to get his brain to work sufficiently to form a plan.

“I need to go back.”

Cora grabs his hand, squeezing it. “I figured,” she says calmly. “I’m coming with you.”

Derek’s head whips up, eyes wide with surprise. “You are? What about school? You don’t even remember Stiles. Why would you do that?”

She cocks her head, giving him one of those fed-up stares that Laura had perfected by the age of ten.

“Don’t worry about school. I have enough credit to graduate early if I want. And I don’t care if I remember this Stiles or not. I care about you, and you’re worried. That means I’m worried too. Besides,” she ads with a fond smile. “I have a cousin in Beacon Hills I’ve yet to meet. It’ll be a family reunion.”

“I’m not visiting Peter,” mutters Derek. Cora laughs.

“Fair enough. Now, let’s get back to the house. We have a trip to plan.”

Walking back Derek contemplates the irony of it all. He’s been so apprehensive about going back to Beacon Hills, convinced the what scares him most are the demons of his past, the memories and the guilt associated with it. Turns out, an even greater fear is the notion of a life without Stiles in it.

_Everyone I care about dies, lies or disappears._

This was a mantra Derek learned the hard way. Sadly, this fact is as true now as it’s ever been... 

 

————

“What’s a handsome guy like you doing with a frown like that?”

Her voice takes him aback. Derek’s lost in his own thoughts, like he usually is these days. Laura has taken to calling him Mr. Killjoy, claiming he suffocates his surroundings with his bad mood. The first time she said that, Derek was sure she knew. Knew about Paige. Knew what he’d done, and how he’d played a role in her fate. It had been during a Sunday family dinner. Peter had actually chocked on a piece of chicken, and his dad lost all color in his face. Talia Hale however, had been perfectly calm.

It is such a weird thing, Derek muses, discovering that all your rose-colored ideas about your parents are simply illusions. That they play roles and parts like the rest of us. Derek always thought of his mom as warm. Inclusive. Emphatic. Like how she used to pull him aside when he was younger, assuring him that it was okay to be different.

Only, it clearly isn’t true. Derek _is_ different. Now more than ever. And she ignores it. Pretends it never happened. Aside from his mom, only dad and Peter know, and Derek can’t fathom how they manage to keep up such a prefect facade. Even Derek’s eyes are kept secret. He’s discouraged from running with the rest of the pack on full moons. It’s never been a secret that he didn’t enjoy it, so now they simply cultivate that. Of course, that simply means Laura’s teasing is more insufferable than ever.

Basically, life sucks. It sucks up one side and down the other. School is okay, except basketball which has become a nightmare. The control Derek barely had before, well, let’s just say it’s not faring too well these days. The last game that fell on a full moon had Peter cornering him in the showers again, just like he used to do before Paige, coaxing him down from full wolf rage. In short, everything seems to be rolling downhill. Derek’s just waiting for the inevitable. For him to hit the bottom of a ravine with a messy splat. In a way, it'll be a relief.

So, he hides. Spends as little time as possible with his family, and avoid his friends as best he can. His favorite hideout is the library downtown. Here he can lose himself, either to his dark thoughts or to fantasy worlds and make-believe. That is, until now.

Derek lifts his head, but instead of the tired frown of Mrs. Weissman, the head librarian, he’s met with a pair of startlingly light brown eyes and a crooked, yet beautiful smile. She’s maybe around twenty or so, perhaps older, maybe younger. She’s got one of those faces that’s hard to place age-wise. Still, beautiful, though.

“Excuse me,” he says, voice cracking from lack of use. He’s been sitting here, reading for several hours.

“Oh, you’re more than excused,” she says with a wink. “I’m new, working the checkout counter,” she adds, gesturing at her name-tag. It reads ‘Kate’ in block letters.

“You come here often?”

She leans her hip against the bookshelf next to his table, managing to look both innocent and wicked at the same time. She’s like every teenage boy’s sexy librarian fantasy come true. Only, like - real.

“Yeah,” he manages, because it’s actually true, and if it wasn’t already, he’s sure as hell come everyday now. Pun unintended, but very fitting.

“In that case,” purrs Kate, tossing her hair, “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, Derek.”

He’s too caught up in the way she stresses the words “seeing a lot of each other” to really notice her one mistake that day. His teenage mind had tumbled headfirst into a pit of sexual fantasies and pretty much stayed there. Her calling him Derek, though, when he hadn’t even told her his name - that detail would come back to him much later, but by then his family was already dead. Killed indirectly by his stupidity, his libido and his naivety. 

_Lies. Death. Disappearance._

  
_________

 

  
Derek sits down heavily on his bed, exhaustion sneaking up on him. He needs to pack. Cora's already booked a flight out the next day, but it's hard to concentrate, especially with bad memories from the past sneaking up on him.

It confirms one thing, though: Derek’s track record is abysmal. He’s loved once and got burned. He’s trusted once, and his family burned. Now, he’s started to care again, and Derek should have known it would lead to disaster. Should have cut all bonds the moment he left Beacon Hills. Because now Stiles appears to have been erased from memory. Everyone’s memory but his.

Despite knowing better Derek gradually allowed himself to care again. To let the annoying motormouth with the expressive honey eyes, the moles, and enough sarcasm to fill a chasm, work himself under his skin, inching towards the one place no one should reside. Derek’s heart.

 _I need to get him back_ , he thinks desperately, fishing out his duffel-bag from under the bed. Derek is not ready for more lives on his conscience. He needs to make this right. To get Stiles back. Then he needs to do the right thing, and leave him behind.

Forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The weird changes to Stiles' room is inspired the glitches mid-scene in episode 1x09. If you haven't noticed it yet, go back and rewatch and pay close attention to the stuff in Stiles' room, the posters on the wall etc. Everything changes! Everything.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly sorry for the delayed chapter, but I've been swamped with preparations for my son's confirmation.

Stiles is gradually losing all concepts of time. It is bad enough when night and day keep shifting at erratic intervals, but now that his room appears to have been perpetually transported to the darkest corner of Mordor, keeping track of time has gone from difficult to impossible.

Alarmingly, the contours of the familiar surroundings are gradually transforming. The mist seems to creep closer and grow denser the longer he stays. So far there’s no indication it’s dangerous or poisonous, yet he’s not eager to test this hypothesis. Stiles is therefore permanently camped by the invisible barrier, safely at a distance so it won’t zap him again, and close enough that he every now and then catches a glimpse of his father. He’s given up on calling out to him. It’s of no use.

Somewhere around what he thinks is day four, a bone-rattling chill settles in. There’s no wind blowing, and yet Stiles finds himself frozen to his core. Like he’s locked in a meat locker, or Dementors are encircling the area. With the chill also comes movements. Shadowy figures in his peripheral vision, too fast for him to really get a good look at, but still undeniably there. It’s not a welcome presence.

Stiles does his best to ignore them. It’s not easy, of course, and he finds the best way to do it, is to sleep. It’s hard to actually fall asleep, but the oblivion is worth the effort. He never dreams.

After a while, Stiles grows tired of doing nothing. Sure, the unknown beyond what he can make out scares him. So does the shadows. But frankly the notion of doing nothing, just sitting here, withering away, is worse. Which is how Stiles finds himself inching forward into the unknown expanse previously known as his room.

He walks. And walks. And walks some more. It’s like he’s stuck on a treadmill, because when he glances back, he’s still by the barrier, even though the contours around him on all sides, seem to change, ebb and flow, like objects in space, the gravity gone haywire.

Still, he trudges on, until his legs give out and he crumbles to the floor, exhausted, frustrated and angry beyond words. He screams, curses and rants. Then he simply sits there, panting, wondering if this is all there is, and what the fuck have the hunt done with the other people it’s taken? Where’s Ben and his family? Are they stuck in their own homes, hidden behind veils of doom, just like him?

When he eventually turns around to crawl back into his makeshift nest of pillows and covers, Stiles comes face to face with a person he’d literally forgotten all about. Someone he’s not missed and would be perfectly content to never lay eyes on again.

“I should’ve known,” the man drawls. The voice penetrates Stiles’ spine, making his blood curl. The sensation is as familiar as it is unwanted.

The haughty face of Adrian Harris regards Stiles with the same unconcealed dislike he exudes when teaching chemistry. Unless you were Jackson “suck up” Whittemore, of course.

“Out of all the people to get themselves caught by the Wild Hunt, I’m not even vaguely surprised they picked you, Mr. Stilinski.” His lips curl in a cruel smile. “I guess you can say this is the ultimate detention. Fitting, I’d say.”

“I could say the same for you,” snarls Stiles, taking a step back. “Truthfully, I had forgotten all about you. Good riddance, I’d say, but I guess that illusion is broken now. Shame,” he adds with a shrug.

Harris tips his head. Stiles has no clue what to make of it.

“So,” Stiles says after a while when it becomes apparent Harris has no intention of keeping up the conversation. In fact, he simply stands there all stiff and creepy, staring at him. It’s eerie. Stiles don’t do well with eerie. Or maybe it’s just Harris he’s got issues with. Or both, which just makes matters worse than they already are.

“Break it down for me, Teach. You’ve obviously been here a while, and by “here” I mean beyond this weird ass barrier in general, and not specifically in my room, because that’s just creepy beyond words, even for you.”

Harris rolls his eyes, a hand moving up to adjust his glasses. “Your point?” he asks, stiffly.

“My point is, do you know anything about what this misty moor of misery is all about? And where are all the others?”

“Others?”

Harris looks honestly confused. Like Stiles has asked him a question about quantum physics that not even the combined forces of Sheldon Cooper and Stephen Hawking know the answer to.

“Yeah, the other people taken by the hunt?” Stiles gestures impatiently, knocking a few books to the floor in the process. “Ben and his family? I know they were taken just a few days before me. They snatched Ben only hours before. Where did those crazy cowboys stick them? And how come you can wander around? I seem to be stuck inside a space the equivalent of my room.”

Harris blinks owlishly a few times, before his face falls into familiar folds of contempt.

“I haven’t seen a soul since I got here. Certainly not some Ben.”

“Crap,” breathes Stiles, sinking down to the floor, banging the back of his head against the wall in frustration. “So, this is a long term deal, then. Like I said, I had forgotten all about you until now, but I remember now. You went missing around the time the darach ran around performing threefold sacrifices. You were one of the soldiers, right?”

“Right,” confirms Harris coldly. “If you remember that, then how come you knew there were threefold deaths? If you don’t even recall me, wouldn’t that make it a twofold death and break the pattern?”

Stiles grins cruelly, and almost feels bad about it. Almost. Harris was always such a grade A dick, it’s difficult to muster much sympathy for the guy.

“Not really, I always thought Boyd qualified as the last one. He was in ROTC after all, just like Kyle. Then there was the band teacher. Of course, now that I’ve seen your ugly mug again I remember finding out you were at West Point and that you tried to warn us by spelling out darach on the papers you were grading. Clever,” he adds, because actually it was.

“So, everyone just forgot about me?”

Harris sounds strangely dejected. Stiles nods.

“Yeah, pretty much. Just like everyone forgot all about Ben, too. Everyone except me. But I’d seen them. The riders of the hunt, I mean. Ben had taken a picture of them and showed me. They grabbed me not long after. Supernatural clean up crew at it’s best. Like fucking cleaners for the mob, only better. Or worse. Depends on your perspective, I guess.”

Harris laughs, though the sound he produces is chillingly mirthless.

“That’s actually scarily accurate. For once, you get something right, Mr. Stilinski.”

“I always got _everything_ right on your tests, and you know it. You just always had it in for me, don’t know why. Not that I even care at this point,” mutters Stiles impatiently, gesturing for Harris to go on. “What exactly do you mean by ‘scarily accurate’?”

Harris seems to grow several inches, probably by the notion he knows something Stiles doesn’t.

“You said it yourself,” he shrugs, picking off invisible lint from his ill-fitting blazer. “Supernatural clean up crew. That’s what the hunt is, after all. When shit goes haywire - more so than usual, and usually at the hand of some power hungry maniac, human or not, they swoop in to correct the imbalance.”

Stiles snorts. “You do realize you just implicated yourself as a supernatural mistake of epic proportions, right?”

“You’re one to talk,” retorts Harris snootily.

“Yeah, actually I am. I’ve not screwed around with supernatural shit. In fact, I’ve been doing my level best to stop maniacs exploit, kill and maim for the better part of two years. I’m more like the hapless witness of disaster, not the cause of it.”

He cocks his head, regarding the teacher with ill-concealed dislike. “Which begs the question, why are you here? My dad told me you provided Kate Argent with information about how to get away with arson, so I’m guessing you’re not entirely uninformed. So, did you poke your nose into something worse? Hard as that might be to imagine. Kate Argent is pretty high on my hate list. Did you know she’s now a murderous were-jaguar?”

Harris’ eyes bug, mouth formed in a silent no.

“Still at large too, sadly. Too bad the hunt hasn’t picked up her, yet.” Stiles regards Harris shrewdly. “So, let me take a gander. You threw your chips in with the darach, didn’t you?”

The way he startles is all the confirmation Stiles needs. Not that it matters much anyway. No matter the reasons why they’re here, his goal is still the same. To get out. To get back!

“So,” he says mock-casually, pinning Harris with a steely glare. “You’ve been here a while. Found any ways of getting the hell out of dodge?”

“Do you think I’d still be here, if I knew the answer to that?”

Stiles shrugs, grinning maddeningly. “What do I know? You might be a sucker for self-torture and gloom for all I know. Besides, there’s a difference between knowing if there’s a way out and finding said way.”

“Still as infuriating as always,” mutters Harris, rolling his eyes theatrically. “But you’re right. There is a way out.”

“Really?”

Stiles honestly hadn’t expected that, and he finds himself irrationally hopeful.

“Yes. Or so the lore will have you believe.”

Harris sounds bitter, which should probably serve to put a damper on his elation.

“We never found anything about that,” admits Stiles. “Then again, there were hardly any information about people coming back from the hunt at all. Not surprising, given that it erases all memories of the ones they kidnap.”

Harris chortles, and it’s such a harsh sound, Stiles’ veins freeze, his hope flickers and dies.

“And therein lies the problem,” he drawls tiredly, like a dejected Malfoy. “There’s no way out, Stiles. Not from our side at least. If you want to return, someone needs to get you. Someone from the other side needs to rip open the barrier, and break you out.”

So easy. And yet so difficult.

The Wild Hunt had created the perfect prison, the key to escape and release entirely at the hands of the ones left behind. It truly is the worst kind of punishment, Stiles realizes. To be trapped, stuck for eternity with the one person you despise most of all as your only company, and forgotten by everyone you hold dear.

“I’m truly trapped in the lowest circle of hell,” Stiles mumbles, heart breaking. Perhaps, he thinks, bathing in self-loathing, it’s entirely deserved.

 

 ***~***

 

“Are you sure this is the best course of action?”

Derek can feel Cora’s eyes on him, but he’s too focused to return her stare. They’re sitting in a rented car parked across the street from Stiles’ house, and has been here for the last half hour. The Sheriff’s cruiser is parked out front, and from the outside everything looks exactly like it’s always done. Except for the flowerbed out back. It’s been weeded recently and actually looks kind of nice. Not that it matters. Just an observation.

“Derek? Did you hear me? Can we please talk about this again, before you storm in there? Need I remind you he’s a sheriff? A sheriff probably equipped with Wolfsbane bullets.”

Cora grabs his arm, squeezing tentatively. Derek reluctantly peels his eyes away from the second story window he knows all too well belongs to Stiles’ room. As feared, there’s no movement, no scent, no sign of him.

“Shouldn’t we maybe talk to some of the others first? Like Scott, or I dunno. Deaton?”

Derek shakes his head. “I already talked to Scott. He doesn’t remember Stiles. If he’s forgotten all about his best friend, why would Deaton remember? He never even liked Stiles all that much.”

“What makes you say that?”

Derek shrugs. “Stiles told me. I think it was a case of mutual distrust and dislike. Anyway, _I_ don’t even like or trust Deaton. The guy was mom’s emissary and never told me. So forgive me for not running to him for help.”

Cora throws her hands up. “Okay, no Deaton. Duly noted. But would it hurt to try Scott again?”

Truthfully, it probably wouldn’t hurt. It would frustrate him and try Derek’s patience. It would most definitely cause loads of confusion, raise questions about his mental state, and worse case land him in Eichen House right alongside Peter. This is definitely the kind of crazed tale that could earn you a one-way ticket to that questionable establishment.

He takes it all back. Talking to Scott - to anyone - can most definitely hurt. Still, he has to try, and Derek’s got this weird gut feeling the answer lies here. At the Stilinski house, and therefore probably also with Stiles’ father.

He grabs the handle, opening the door with a resolute push. He can hear Cora muttering “this will be interesting”, but she follows him without protest. They cross the street, and walk up the driveway in determined sync.

“What will you tell him?” she asks as they climb the stairs to the front door. Derek doesn’t get a chance to answer, which is probably just as well, because he has no clue. Instead, the door is wrenched open and Sheriff Stilinski glares at the pair of them looking intimidating in his uniform, gun belt clipped on and plainly visible.

“Derek,” he says with a slight nod. “Cora,” he follows up, moving his gaze to her. “Mind telling me why you’ve been camped across the street for the better part of an hour, looking mighty shifty, I might add.”

Derek grins sheepishly, meaning for it to come across disarming and perhaps even a bit charming. There’s nothing in the sheriff’s face to suggest he’s succeeding, even remotely.

“About that,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “Mind if we come in? This is the kind of conversation I think is best done sitting down.”

“Might want to pour yourself a stiff drink as well,” adds Cora unhelpfully.

Sheriff Stilinski visibly deflates, but opens the door wider, gesturing them to enter.

“I have a very bad feeling about this,” he says with a deep frown. Derek couldn’t agree more.

 

  
***

 

  
“You know,” says the sheriff, downing the last of his whiskey - the second glass in just ten minutes but who’s counting, “there was a time I had trouble grasping the concept of kanimas and werewolves. Somehow, I managed to get over that and I’ve now learned to accept that more than half of the shit I investigate stems from supernatural sources, and needs less solving and more covering up. As a man of the law, that was a hard pill to swallow.”

Derek nods along with every word. Remarkably, Stiles’ dad has sat through his entire explanation, stilted and incoherent as it was, without either losing his head or kicking them out. That alone counts as a win. In fact, Derek’s feeling quietly optimistic he might actually be getting through to him. It’s hard to read his chemo-signals, probably because of his cop training. Or maybe Derek’s just not all that focused.

“This however,” he continues, pouring himself another generous glass of amber liquid, “this is where I draw the line.”

“Sir?”

The sheriff leans back in his armchair, pinning the siblings with an unimpressed glower.

“You waltz into my home and tell me I’ve got a son who I, and everyone else except for you, have forgotten all about. That’s not just nuts, Derek. It’s downright cruel.”

“I’m sorry, I know it sounds ludicrous, but I swear it’s true.”

Panic is starting to bloom in his chest. 

“Really?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s eyebrow is raised so high, it’s all but blending into the deep furrow across his forehead.

“Forgive me for my skepticism, not least because of the overwhelming lack of proof. Can you back up this story?” the sheriff asks Cora, who’s squirming in her seat, looking more uncomfortable and unsure than Derek’s ever seen before. He’d totally tease her if the situation wasn’t so dire.

“Not really,” she mumbles. “I can’t remember him either. But I know my brother, and I believe he’s telling the truth. I can hear his heartbeat. It’s steady and true.”

“Oh, I believe he believes he’s telling the truth,” scoffs the sheriff. “I’ve worked with him enough to know he’s not the joking type. No offense, Hale, but stand up comedy is just not in your repertoire. But I’ve also seen magical mojo at work, and if anything’s amiss, it’s probably Derek’s memories, not ours. Didn’t the darach do something similar? It’s just not feasible that one man’s memories is right and the rest of the world’s is wrong. Besides, my wife died years ago, before we could conceive a child. And even if we did, we wouldn’t name him _Stiles_. Honestly, what kind of hipster name is that?”

“It’s not his real name,” Derek interjects. “It’s a nickname.”

“In that case, it’s a terrible one.” The sheriff scoffs. “ _Stiles Stilinski_? Honestly, that sounds like an alliteration gone wrong. Or a Baltic porn name. So, what’s this alleged son of mine’s real name?”

Derek’s drawing a blank. Stiles never told him, and he never thought to ask. Given his last name, he’s always just assumed it’s something Polish and decidedly unpronounceable.

A vague memory filters through the fog of frustration clouding his mind. Stiles’ dad had yelled something once when they were talking on the phone. The problem is Derek’s unable to remember what it was.

“Something starting with M, I think,” he mutters, pushing and prodding at the vague recollection. “It sounded Polish, I think. I can’t pronounce it anyway. I remember thinking it sounded like ‘ _mischief_ ’ and that it was very fitting.”

The sheriff opens his mouth, probably to tell Derek how preposterous this is, when a muffled thud sounds from above. Almost like something hitting the floor, or bouncing off a wall.

“What was that?” he asks breathlessly, staring up at the ceiling, senses strained. He can’t hear any other heartbeats or smell any other scents, but still. Hope blooms.

“Weird.” The sheriff looks nonplussed, staring at the ceiling. “It sounded like something hitting the floor. Probably just a book falling of my nightstand, or maybe something in the bathroom.”

Derek has to admit that sounds plausible. Trouble is, he’s not looking for logical explanations. He’s looking for Stiles, and if anyone could manage to send out a bat signal from wherever he’s been whisked off to, it’s him.

He makes a split second decision, bolting from the couch without notice. Derek’s halfway up the stairs before either Cora or the Sheriff can gather their wits to yell out, and they’re both helpless to stop him. He takes the stairs two at the time, feeling the burn in his thigh muscles as he catapults the last section, landing with a slightly over the top superhero landing, knee bent, arms braced on the floor. He can practically hear the sarcastic commentary of Laura, docking points for lack of creativity and labeling him a showoff. He doesn’t care. He’ll take the imaginary teasing and mocking of his long-dead sister anytime of the week and twice on Sundays, if it means having Stiles back.

He dimly registers commotion downstairs, and reckons he has about five seconds before the Sheriff has a gun loaded with wolfsbane bullets pointed at his head. Derek’s never really entered Stiles’ room from this angle, so it takes him a few seconds to figure out where his room is.

Only, it’s gone.

Derek stares at the solid wall before him, a cheap knockoff painting hanging above a sizable dresser with a few knickknacks displayed, including a photo of a young John Stilinski, smiling broadly his arms around a woman bearing a striking resemblance to Stiles. It throws him off kilter for a moment, the way her mouth is tilted in a familiar half-smile, the eyes the same honey-colored brown and moles spattered across her face.

“Stiles?”

His voice is tentative, barely above a whisper. Derek strains his ears, trying desperately to find any sign of sound, voice, heartbeat, Morse code - he’ll take anything at this point.

All he hears are the thundering of feet coming up the stairs. In desperation, he presses his ear against the wall, rapping his knuckles over the plaster, half expecting to find it hollow, the door to Stiles’ room simply covered by wallpaper. It’s not. The sound that echos back drains Derek’s hope. The wall is solid, hiding nothing but sturdy workmanship and heavy support beams.

“Stiles!” he yells, desperate and raw.

Nothing. And yet the hairs on his back rises, almost as if he can feel someone watching him.

Resigned, he takes a few shaky steps back, colliding against the opposite wall, head banging against it, eyes closed shut.

“I think you should leave now.”

The sheriff’s voice is low, yet leaves no room for interpretations. He doesn’t believe him.

Languidly, because every movement takes effort Derek doesn’t really have much of at this point, he shuffles towards the stairs. Cora’s already on her way down, but the Sheriff stands like a Secret Service agent, steadfast, arms crossed, face stony. As he passes by him, Derek lifts his head, meeting his eyes, unwilling to simply let it go.

“He would’ve believed me,” he rasps. “Stiles would’ve believed me.”

Then he leaves.

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Stiles is in hell. Or purgatory. Which one doesn't matter. All he knows is that it's all about suffering, of which he’s slowly becoming a master.

Sharing limited space in a shadowy moorland with his least favorite person ever, is just shy of unbearable. It goes from bad to worse when on day two of their forced cohabitation, Harris starts humming old blues tunes. His intonation is as flat as his personality, and his voice resembles mournful goats. It’s grating on every nerve-ending in Stiles’ body.

“Please, I beg you. Shut the fuck up!”

He throws a book at his former teacher, hitting him on the shoulder. It’s not as satisfying as a whack on the nose, but it at least has the desired effect.

“Why?”

Harris looks like a prissy aunt, all offended and haughty. “It’s not like you’re dazzling me with your wit and charm. I’m bored and this is a classic.”

“The only thing ‘ _classic_ ’ around here is the beating you’ll get if you don’t pipe it down,” warns Stiles, not even kidding. Harris snorts.

“Empty threats, Mr. Stilinski. Those have no value here.”

“Well, I value my peace and quiet, and quite highly at that,” retorts Stiles sweetly, pulling out his bat from underneath the blanket nest. “I have a bat and I’m not afraid to use it. Make of that what you want.”

He leans heavily back against the wall, not bothering to look at Harris. He can practically feel the waves of resentment rolling off him, but he does in fact end the singing. Stiles sighs in relief.

Falling asleep takes forever, but it’s the only worthwhile activity dedicating any energy on. They've embarked on a few more fruitless attempts to either leave the room or reach the windows, but they yield nothing new. All it confirms is that they are in fact effectively trapped here, and no matter how many times Stiles questions Harris about how he got here, he just can’t remember. Stiles might not trust him, but he trusts Harris is telling the truth about that. Their mutual hatred is so strong, there’s no way the teacher would hide any information if it meant a chance of getting out and away from this place.

It’s not exactly an encouraging thought.

 

*

 

  
It happens when Stiles is in that trippy in-between state where you’re aware you’re dreaming and yet unable to control your mind. Out of nowhere, like a gunshot, Stiles’ body yanks forward. It feels as if a hook is fastened behind his navel, pulling him fast and hard. He falls forward, bracing himself just a moment too late, and his arms end up entangled in the swivel chair. Spastic limbs sends it flying, crashing into the bookshelf with a loud thud, books raining to the floor.

“What are you doing?” hisses Harris. Stiles is sprawled half on his stomach, disoriented and confused.

“Idiot. You touched the barrier, didn’t you?”

“No!”

He definitely hadn’t. Once was enough to learn not to do it again, and besides, this feels vastly different. His first clue? This didn’t hurt. Well, the landing did, but the violent pull had just taken Stiles by surprise.

“You must have done something,” drawls Harris. “Or wait, it’s you. I seem to recall you falling off chairs while flirting with Danny. I take it all back.”

“Funny,” mutters Stiles, feeling his cheeks redden unnecessarily. He’s never flirted with Danny! Not intentionally at least.

“It felt like something was pulling me forward,” he mumbles, skimming his surroundings. Nothing seems different. The room is still mostly hidden in mist and shadows. In fact, it looks denser than before. It’s all very disheartening.

Wait?

Stiles strains his ears. Is that - _voices_?

“I think you’re pulling my leg,” Harris complains, adjusting his glasses pompously.

“Shut up!”

“Excuse me?”

“Shush! Be quiet!”

Stiles crawls closer to the barrier. The hum of whatever invisible forcefield is keeping them trapped here, sounds impossibly loud up close. That’s not what’s caught his attention though.

Someone’s coming up the stairs! In fact, it sounds like a herd of rampant bulls are heading his way. Then, in a whirl of motion, someone catapults up the last few steps, completes a full-fledged werewolf somersault, patent pending, and finishes off with an over the top superhero landing.

Stiles gasps, takes a step back and promptly collides into Harris.

“Is that - _Derek Hale_?”

It is. It’s Derek!

Stiles’ heart is mimicking the somersault, then follows up with an impressive rabbit’s paced beat, threatening to smash through his torso at any moment. He laughs, the sound giddy and incredulous at once. Derek’s here!

“Derek!” he yells, face split in two by a grin so wide he can feel his lips cracking. “Derek!” he repeats, catching himself just in time before thundering on the barrier to get his attention. Derek’s eyes are skimming down the hall, looking for something. He walks slowly, a frown on his face, like he’s concentrating on some puzzle.

“What’s Derek Hale doing outside your room?” asks Harris, sounding both disapproving and hopeful at once.

“Looking for the door,” mumbles Stiles. “He’s never entered this way before.”

“I don’t even want to know,” scoffs Harris.

“Good, cause I don’t even want to tell you,” he bites back, never taking his eyes of Derek, who’s now stopped right in front of him, face confused.

“I’m right here!” yells Stiles, jumping up and down, arms windmilling. “Derek!”

“Stiles?”

Derek’s voice is hesitant and barely audible. Stiles’ heart sings with joy!

“Yes! Yes, Derek! I’m here!”

Hope is a traitorous thing. It can arrive and disappear at the drop of a hat. Stiles’ hope drains away the moment his dad and Cora materialize at the top of the stairs, both staring at Derek with faces mirroring the same feeling: doubt, fear and in his dad’s case - anger.

Derek flattens his ear against the wall, his knuckles rapping across it, like he’s looking for a way in, a sign that there’s something behind it.

“I’m here!” Stiles bellows, clapping his hands, stomping his feet. “Don’t just stand there like a moron!” he snarls at Harris. “Make some noise, goddammit!”

It’s a testament to their desperation when Harris joins in without question or sarcastic comment.

It’s of no use.

After a few minutes Derek takes a step back. Then another, and another. Until he collides with the opposite wall, head banging against it, face crestfallen.

“I think you should leave,” says his dad in that voice that effectively conveys it’s not a request at all. Derek reluctantly complies, casting a last long glance his way.

“He would’ve believed me,” Derek rasps. “Stiles would’ve believed me.”

Then he leaves.

As soon as his back disappears down the stairs, Stiles breaks down in tears.

 

  
***

 

  
Remarkably, Harris doesn’t comment or tease. Not about the scene they just witnessed, and not about Stiles’ breakdown. It’s the most human thing he’s ever done, and Stiles is oddly grateful.

Nothing happens after that. Sleep is not an option, and somehow the fog seems thicker. Almost like a punishment for the brief flicker of hope Derek’s presence had created. It might be a trick of the slowly disappearing light, but it also seems like it’s moved closer. The only part of his room Stiles can make out clearly are the door, the bookshelf, parts of his desk and the sad spot by the overflowing hamper Harris has claimed as his domain. If it progresses with the same speed, they’ll be completely engulfed in mist within days. 

Stiles decides he needs a distraction from the doomsday predictions that keeps popping up in his mind. He's trying to decide between rereading Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief or tackling Sophie's Choice, when Harris asks an unexpected question.

“So, Derek Hale? When exactly did you two become this friendly? You seem an odd combination. And how come he remembers you?”

Stiles takes a moment to consider these questions. They’re actually good ones, and especially the second is something he’s keen to know as well. The Wild Hunt is supposed to erase all memories of his existence. And yet, Derek came looking for him, called out for him when not even his dad remembers.

Stiles shrugs. “To answer your second question first - I don’t know. I have no clue why Derek would remember me and not my dad, Scott, Cora or anyone else. I know even less about The Hunt than you do, remember?”

“There must be some kind of special bond between the two of you for that to happen,” Harris replies, an icy edge to his voice. “I can’t for the life of me see what ‘ _bond_ ’ that might be, but I guess werewolves have odd tastes.”

“As always, you flatter me,” snarks Stiles, not even bothering to defend whatever odd friendship that’s brewing between Derek and him. Frankly it baffles him too, especially given how abysmal their starting point was.

“I don’t care about flattery, Mr. Stilinski," says Harris curtly. "I only care about leaving. Your strange link to Derek Hale is now our only lead, so forgive me for being curious.”

Harris’ sneer has lost some of it’s edge. Forced captivity and a swiftly approaching depression can do that to you.

“I don’t think forgiveness is an emotion I’m capable of mustering for you,” Stiles replies more or less on autopilot. It’s what they do, Harris and him - insult each other. This wasn’t even a good one, lacking in bite and creativity. It can’t be helped. Stiles’ mind is too preoccupied trying to solve the greatest mystery of all - how and when Derek and he became friends.

  
___________________

  
Stiles is tiptoeing across a somewhat uneven floor, which actually makes tiptoeing extra hard. It’s more like he’s tripping across it, cause the surface is anything but smooth, and in dire need of being sanded and oiled. Beautiful woodwork, just hideously neglected. Which is really a great summary of this entire building come to think of it. Stiles takes one look at the elevator and promptly decides on the stairs, long as the climb might be. That contraption has all the makings of a deathtrap just waiting for a hapless victim to risk it.

“Valar morghulis,” Stiles mutters under his breath, saluting the elevator as he jogs past it. “All men must die, just not today, you rusty piece of junk.”

Too many levels to count later, Stiles is both winded and amazed no one’s called him out yet. At every landing he’s half expecting an ambush. For some lame werewolf to catapult out of the shadows in a ridiculous display of acrobatics and pin him to the wall. It’s known to happen every now and then. He’s nearing the top now, and still nothing. He must be incredibly stealthy. Either that or Derek’s not home.

“Hello, Stiles. I know you’re out there.”

Okay, so Derek’s definitely home. Stiles winces, frozen in place, contemplating fight of flight. Not that he’d win either way. Derek can make meatloaf out of him in a fight, blindfolded and tied up, and easily catch him before he’s halfway down the stairs if he chooses flight. Clearly, Stiles did not think this trough properly. Damned werewolves and their super-senses!

“Nope,” he says jovially. “No one’s here, least of all Stiles. Carry on!”

Yeah, that only works in exceedingly lame movies, dealing with extraordinary stupid characters. Like the thieves in Home Alone. Derek Hale is neither a thief nor stupid. At all. In fact, if anyone’s the thief in this scenario, it’s Stiles. This is after all Derek’s house, at least according to county records that Stiles may or may not have accessed last night using passwords he strictly speaking should not have any knowledge of. Which is all hearsay, of course.

“I heard your rabbit-paced heartbeat all the way down on the parking lot, Stiles.”

Stiles chances a glance in the direction of the voice, and crap! Derek’s leaning casually against the sliding door to his apartment, biceps bulging.

“In fact,” Derek continues, voice low and growly, “I know you were loitering outside yesterday, too. Not to mention the day before. I was honestly beginning to hope you’d never pluck up the courage to come inside.”

“Har har, look who’s grown a funny bone.”

Stiles gives up on the retreat. It’s futile anyway. Besides, he’s come here for a reason. Reluctantly and hesitantly, yes, but still, it is something he genuinely wants to do. Something he _needs_ to do, grumpy alpha werewolf be damned.

“What do you want, Stiles?”

Derek sounds tired. In fact, he looks tired, too. Eyes bloodshot, stubble just a tad too long and a bit unkempt. T-shirt rumpled, like he’s slept in it for days. Perhaps he has.

“I wanna help.”

It is a simple as that. No agenda. No ulterior motives.

“You want to help?” Derek scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Forgive me, but I fail to see how you can help me with anything.”

Stiles is prepared to plead his case, recognizing that Derek might be skeptical. He’s not up for blatant dismissal and belittling, though.

“No? I can’t help with _anything_?” He arches an eyebrow, curling his lip back in a slight snarl. “I seem to remember little old me holding up your massively bulky ass in a pool for hours, preventing your untimely demise. I guess that wasn’t “ _anything_ ” either?”

“I wouldn’t even be in that situation if it wasn’t for you and Scott meddling in my business.”

Derek looks unamused and unimpressed.

“Don’t pin Scott’s dislike for you on me, okay! That’s not fair at all. And I don’t care if you like me or not. Boyd and Erica are missing. I want to help look for them, okay?”

“Why?”

 _Why?_ Stiles is at a loss for words. For a few moments he simply stares at Derek, mouth slightly open, which he knows makes him look kind of silly if the way Derek keeps staring at it is any indication. It can’t be helped though. The answer to that question should be obvious. Stiles might not agree with every decision Derek’s made lately, but ultimately they’ve always been on the same side. Scott is just too pigheaded to get that, and Derek to constipated and proud to get the point across. The result is a clusterfuck that could’ve been avoided.

“Are you damaged? Two people are missing! I actually kinda like them, despite their new penchant for leather and tendencies to knock me out and put me in dumpsters.”

“They’re not your pack, so what’s it to you?”

Derek’s put on his bad ass deadpan face. It’s blank and unreadable, except for his eyes. They betray him.

“I still care, okay! Pack or no pack!”

Stiles flails, almost in a hope it might propeller his intention across better. Derek simply arches a questioning eyebrow. God! He’s so frustrating!

“Look,” he says, voice pleading and raw. “I’m pretty sure I was the last person to see them before they disappeared, okay. Gerard kidnapped me and threw me in the Argent basement, and gave me a good old-fashioned beating. Erica and Boyd were there, tied up with electricity wired into the rope. Chris Argent eventually let us all go, but I was too set on getting back to my dad to pay much attention to where they went. I feel bad about that.”

“So you’re here to make yourself feel better?”

“To a lesser degree, yes. That is an added bonus.”

Stiles draws a deep breath, staring Derek directly in the eye. “I won’t lie to you. I know you can hear it if I do anyway. Yes, I’m here for selfish reasons. I feel guilty and bad, and I want to stop feeling this way. I also truthfully like Boyd and Erica. They’ve been odd misfits for years, something I can personally relate to, believe it or not. In addition, I have access to the sheriff’s station, to police scanners and their systems. I know all my dad’s passwords. I also know how to organize a search party. You’ve got the super speed to do it swiftly. So what do you say?”

“What about Scott?”

There’s a tense clench to Derek’s jaw, and Stiles doesn’t blame him. Scott did a rotten thing, forcing Derek to bite Gerard. If the roles were reversed, Stiles wouldn’t want to see him either. In fact, a part of him is kind of relieved Scott has summer school. Stiles had been just as much in the dark about his plan as Derek. He feels oddly betrayed, and going behind Scott’s back, offering to help Derek feels justified and like a warped and justified kind of revenge.

“Scott’s busy with summer school.”

“So he doesn’t know you’re here?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, quelling the urge to pop the P with difficulty. He senses it’s not really a p-popping kind of situation.

“Good, keep it that way.”

“Ay ay, alpha o’alpha,” salutes Stiles, complete with a silly arm gesture. He might be mistaken, cause the lighting is incredibly bad, but it almost looks like Derek’s suppressing a smile.

“Get in here,” he barks, but there’s little bite to it. Stiles hurries in before Derek has the chance to change his mind. On a rickety table by the door he spots Derek’s key chain and swiftly snatches it up, pocketing it. He’ll make a copy later, providing Derek has a bar of soap in his bathroom.

“So,” he says, dragging out the o. “Point me in the direction of your command central.”

Derek actually grins, which does strange things to Stiles’ body. He’s actually both scared and aroused, and for good reason it turns out. Derek points him towards the huge bay windows down a set of stairs. A movement by the winding staircase catches his attention.

“I trust you remember Peter,” drawls Derek. Stiles’ veins freeze to ice.

 

**

 

In an odd turn of events, working alongside Peter Hale isn’t nearly as horrible as he first feared, especially taking into account he had bit Scott, maimed Lydia and later even kidnapped Stiles. He had offered him the bite in return, but it was such an unattractive offer it had felt more like an insult than a gift. Stiles had later actively participated in Peter’s murder, which you know kind of made them - well not exactly even, but yeah. It was hard to explain.

Anyway, Peter behaves almost civilly. _Almost_ being the operative word. Even if what he says comes off as innocent enough, there’s always a layer of thinly veiled insult included. Stiles is thick-skinned enough to bare it, poor Isaac not so much. On a few occasions Stiles witnesses Derek tear his uncle a new one, and it’s a glorious sight. A ticked-off Derek, red eyes glowing is terrifying, but somehow arouses Stiles more than it scares him. Something which of course Peter catches up on if the way he leers at him is anything to go by. Stiles decides to ignore him. Pretending Peter is air is very amusing, especially since it actually seems to annoy him.

Aside from Peter’s base level of sarcasm, which is admirable, his most redeeming aspect is his absence, and as luck would have it he’s gone more than he’s around. Stiles might approve of Peter’s sarcastic chops, and yet he’s always in a persistent state of vigilance when the older Hale is around. Just because Peter seems fine, it doesn’t erase the psychotic killing spree he recently embarked on. So, Stiles accepts his help, gets along with him relatively fine when he as to, but doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him. A fact he’s not afraid to relay to Derek.

“I don’t trust him.”

Derek’s bent over a huge map of Beacon Hills and the surrounding Preserve, marking off the areas they’ve already covered. Isaac and Peter are out covering a new quadrant. Derek’s been out all night, and the slump to his shoulders speak of fatigue and despondency.  
  
Stiles is sprawled across the threadbare couch, doing another search of the police databases for reports of teenagers matching Boyd and Erica’s descriptions. It’s mostly a lot of waiting while the program works it’s magic. This gives him ample opportunity to study Derek, something he finds himself doing more and more lately.

“Did you hear me? I said I don’t-”

“I heard you,” interrupts Derek, voice flat and toneless.

“Oh, good. Just, you know, wanted to let you know. In case you’re getting lulled into a false sense of trust by his seemingly mellow disposition.”

“I’m not.”

Stiles nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Excellent. He’s helpful and all, in his own eccentric way, but his one-eighty from manic beast-wolf to seemingly balanced individual is suspicious. Also, what’s with all the plunging V-necks?”

A choked sound escapes Derek, startling Stiles into silence. It takes him a few seconds to realize Derek is laughing.

“Oh my god.”

What else is there to say? Derek’s always been such a lump of gloom, the idea of him laughing seems about as real as the tooth fairy. It truly is a spectacular sight. A smiling Derek Hale looks like sunshine personified, which really isn’t fair at all. If Stiles could find a way to bottle that, turn it into a potent tincture of sorts, he’d be a wealthy man in no time.

“I suspect they’re meant to show off his three mile wide neck,” chortles Derek.

“Oh, god, yes! It’s almost as if there’s no difference in width from his head to his neck! Has he been doing neck squats? Neck crunches? Is that even a thing?”

Derek shakes his head, face still soft and amused.

“You know nothing about workout regimes, don’t you?”

“Nada,” confirms Stiles, biting on one of the strings on his hoodie. “It’s limited to bench-warming and running for my life. Nothing that builds too much muscle. I’d like to think it builds character, though.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You? Beg?” Stiles burst out laughing. “Yeah, that’ll be the day. Not sure you’re insulting my character of physique, but I’ll have you know my right hand gets a regular and thorough workout.”

He waggles his eyebrows. Derek lets out a choked sound but doesn’t comment. His ears looks a bit red, though.

“Workout regimes aside,” continues Stiles, “my point still stands. I don’t trust Peter as far as I can throw him. Just wanted to state that for the record.”

“Judging by how little workout you do, I’d say you couldn’t throw him at all,” says Derek innocently, one eyebrow lifted high. “Unless you used your right hand. Obviously.”

Stiles laughs for a solid minute, and it’s hands down the most fun he’s had all summer.

 

  
*

 

 

The weeks drag by, sadly without any result with regards to Boyd and Erica, a fact that seems to weigh more and more on Derek. Although Stiles tries his best to recreate the light and fun moment they’d shared, he can’t seem to get through to him. Derek’s withdrawn, sullen and irritable. A less persistent person would probably have given up a long time ago, but Stiles is a stubborn fucker.

Scott’s too preoccupied with summer school to have much time to spare, and the little he has seems dedicated to Isaac. Stiles isn’t necessarily jealous, because lord knows Isaac needs a friend after the shit he’s been through. It’s more the fact that he’s not even invited. It’s unclear whether it’s because Isaac doesn’t want him around, or because Scott just doesn’t think of it. Either way, it stings more than Stiles is willing to admit. Something has definitely shifted between them, and not necessarily in a good way. Stiles has no idea what to make of it, or how to address it, so he sticks to his default mode and ignores it.

As a result he spends even more time on the search for Boyd and Erica, and shows up to Derek’s loft almost daily. Sometimes, if he finds it locked and empty, he simply lets himself in using the key he’s copied without permission. Derek’s never surprised or angry to find Stiles there, and never asks how he got in without breaking the lock. Stiles can’t help but interpret it as a sign of trust. A trust he’s eager to show his appreciation for.

So he makes Derek dinner.

It’s a very domestic gesture and way above the low level their tentative relationship is at, but Stiles is reckless like that. Besides, it’s nothing fancy, only Mac’n Cheese. No big thing. Or so he keeps telling himself. Derek needs to eat, and will probably forget if left to his own devices. It’s just a favor, and any resemblance to a date-like scenario is purely accidental.

Stiles hears the slide of the door just as he finishes setting the rickety table. He manages to quell a minor freak out before Derek appears in the doorway. It’s hard to tell what causes Derek’s face to look like a giant question mark - Stiles’ rabbit-paced heartbeat, the lingering scent of mild panic, or the smell of his cooking. Maybe it’s the combination.

“Honey, you’re home,” Stiles jokes feebly, doing a spastic sort of wave with the spoon. He suddenly feels very silly wearing his dad’s “Your opinion was not on the menu” apron.

“What’s this?”

“Food,” explains Stiles helpfully. Derek arches an eyebrow, like he’s questioning this logic. Stiles pouts.

“It’s Mac’n’Cheese, special Stilinski recipe. Light on the wolfsbane,” he adds teasingly.

Derek doesn’t react. Stiles’ stomach drops in disappointment. This was clearly a huge mistake. Gob Bluth sized, even.

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’? Why is it food? Or why is it light on wolfsbane? You need to use more than one word, Derek. Preferably in a complete sentence.”

Derek harrumphes like an grumpy old man.

“Neither, you doofus,” he breathes through clenched teeth, eyes doing one of his patented rolls. “Why have you cooked food?”

Stiles shrugs self-consciously. It’s a fair question. Most of the time they just exchange thinly veiled insults. The moment of mutual Peter-bashing was a rare exception, not the rule. Hardly a foundation that warrants candle-light dinners. Not that there are candles. Of course there aren’t.

“Dude, don’t over-analyze. It’s just a simple meal. Which you need by the way, because in all the time I’ve spent here I’ve never seen you consume anything. You’re exhausted, irritable, and on the brink of a breakdown. I live with the county sheriff. I know the signs of stress well, and you’re displaying all of them. So,” he says gesturing elaborately at the mismatched plates, “you’re going to eat. Then you’re going to say “thank you, Stiles” and go take a nap.”

“I’m not stressed,” argues Derek, but it’s feeble and half-hearted.

Stiles snorts. “And I’m the Pope,” he replies, voice dripping sarcasm. “Now, sit your ass down.”

Remarkably Derek does as he’s told without further protests. They eat in silence, and it would be a lie to say it was companionable and easy, but it’s not hostile and no threats are made. When they’re done there’s nothing left in the pan, and Derek looks marginally better. Stiles shoos him away when he tries to clear the table.

“Be gone, alpha!” he chides, pointing a long finger in the direction of the still sparsely furnished living room. “Sit your ass down and relax.”

“I should go out again,” protests Derek. “I gave Isaac the night off, and I have no clue where Peter is.”

“Taking a break does not mean you’re giving up.”

Stiles speaks softly, and Derek’s shoulders actually slump. “It feels like I’m letting them down,” he says quietly.

“You’re not. If you run yourself ragged, who’s gonna keep up the search? Taking a breather is as much for them as for you.”

Derek doesn’t answer. Just stares at Stiles for a long time. Long enough for Stiles to get twitchy and uncomfortable, so he scurries back to the kitchen. After a little while he hears Derek sit down on the couch.

When he returns a while later, wiping his hands on a dish towel, he finds Derek curled up on the couch, eyes closed. It’s hard to tell if he’s asleep or not, but Stiles doesn’t take any chances and starts tip-toeing towards the door. He hasn’t gotten far, when Derek’s voice catches up with him.

“How come you’re not hanging out with Scott and Isaac? Isaac said they were going to the movies.”

Stiles shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it,” he lies, forgetting for a split second that he’s talking to a human lie detector. Derek only lifts his eyebrows, and it’s enough for him to know he’s busted.

“I wasn’t invited,” he admits sullenly.

“I can talk to Isaac if you want,” offers Derek, his voice soft and languid, like he’s on the verge of falling asleep.

“Nah, don’t bother.”

That’s the truth at least. Stiles isn’t interested in being anyone’s charity case. If Scott and Isaac want to exclude him, he’ll stay away.

“Okay,” mumbles Derek. “Sucks for you, I guess. Lucky for me, though.”

Stiles’ heart freezes, then catapults forward with a velocity unlike anything he’s ever felt. It continues to pump away like a jungle drum, intense and hard. He stares at Derek for an impossibly long time, trying to rewind and replay to make sure he’s heard correctly. That Derek had expressed gratitude for his company.

A confirmation never comes. Derek is asleep, breath slow and calm.

 

*

 

 

Stiles continues to come back to the loft, never addressing the comment. Instead, he continues to help Derek search, and somewhere along the line Derek starts confiding in him, telling Stiles about the Alpha pack and how they’re possibly connected to Boyd and Erica’s disappearance.

Occasionally Stiles will make them a meal. Nothing fancy, and yet never when Peter and Isaac are around. Glacially, their conversations grow longer and less stilted. When Peter’s around they tend to gang up on him, and sometimes Derek even smiles. Mostly he doesn’t, but it’s been weeks since the last time he threatened to rip Stiles’ throat out with his teeth, which in Derek speak almost means they’re ready for friendship bracelets.

Stiles never tells Scott. Then again, Scott never once invites Stiles to hang out, with or sans Isaac. Without conscious thought Stiles is building something new, brick by brick. On the flip side, the foundation with Scott is starting to show cracks.

They never find Erica or Boyd. Not that summer. That part of the story didn’t really have a happy ending. Still, something changed for the better, at least for Stiles. Few noticed, and when school starts and Jennifer bewitches her way into Derek’s arms, Stiles feels sidelined and betrayed in ways he’s never experienced before. Somehow it stings worse than Scott ditching him for Allison and later Isaac.

Stiles has almost come to terms with losing the newfound camaraderie he had with Derek, when his dad is kidnapped. He and Scott dash for Derek’s loft in a desperate attempt to tell him the truth about his girlfriend. It genuinely takes Stiles by surprise when Derek believes him. Jennifer puts up quite a performance, and Stiles can little do but plead, tears streaming down his face. Somehow it’s enough. Even Scott looks surprised.

Jennifer is livid when they drag her off to the hospital.

“I underestimated you,” she hisses under her breath as they herd her towards the hospital elevator. “I emulated you, and it worked like a charm. But you had to stick your nose in our business, didn’t you? Fuck you, Stilinski! You have no clue what you’ve done!”

Stiles pokes her in the back with his bat causing her to almost trip into Scott.

“I have no clue what you’re blabbing about, so kindly shut up.” He ads a strained smile, the fakest he can muster. Jennifer cocks her head and glares.

“You’re smart, Stilinski. You don’t fool me.”

“You still make no sense. None.”

“Shut up, the both of you,” snarls Derek, ears red, face flustered.

They stop in front of the elevator and Scott pushes the button. The wait is awkward. Jennifer stares at Derek, a slow grin blooming on her face.

“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” she croons, staring at Derek. “How we met, why you liked me, why you believe him over me.”

“Shut up!”

Derek’s voice rumbles threateningly. Jennifer’s laugher blends with the ding announcing the elevator’s arrival.

“I’m confused.”

Stiles truly am. Jennifer grins, but it turns into a grimace when Derek tightens the hold on her arm. Stiles looks to Scott who simply shrugs and pushes the second floor button.

“Oh, how I would love to stay and watch this special bond unfold,” titters Jennifer. Derek growls and they all fall silent.

 

—————————————

Harris snapping his fingers and calling his name pulls Stiles back to his sad reality.

“So?” his former teacher prompts, lips smashed together in a tight line. “Did your inner musings reveal anything worthwhile to solve the mystery of why Derek Hale remembers you?”

Stiles shakes his head, mostly to clear out the cobwebs, but he’s still clueless. He can’t think of anything that would suggest his and Derek’s relationship is any different or stronger than his dad, or even Scott or Lydia for that matter.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sagging even further down against the wall, emotionally and physically drained.

Harris’ silence speaks volumes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

“Fuck!”

Derek hits his hands repeatedly against the steering wheel of the rental car, expletives pouring out of him, like someone’s opened the floodgates, or the Hoover Dam has sprung leak. When he hits the horn and starts to attract unwanted attention from tight-lipped neighbors, Cora intervenes with startling authority.

“Okay, that’s it! I’m driving. Move over!”

She might be smaller than Derek, but she’s a werewolf too, and not afraid to use her strength to make him bend to her will. Three minutes later Derek is riding shotgun, arms crossed, face thunderous. He’s stopped cursing, though, but his mood is caught between rage and depression. It’s a volatile condition. Cora seems to sense the danger.

“So, what now?” she asks in a tone aiming for casual. Her scent betrays her. Derek can smell her apprehension.

“Make a left at the intersection,” he snaps. Cora does as instructed, one eyebrow arched high.

“Do you mind enlightening me to our destination?”

“Turn right, then straight ahead.”

“I guess not,” she sighs.

Derek knows he’s being childish. Knows it’s entirely unfair to take his frustrations out on Cora, but he can’t help it. She’s been nothing but supportive, and he appreciates it to no end. Still, she can’t help. Not really. Cora doesn’t remember Stiles, and without anything concrete to show her, like pictures, there’s little Derek can do to help her to remember. He’d hoped, prayed that the sheriff could be swayed. That talking about Stiles would unravel repressed memories. Now, the only thing Derek is certain to get out of the sheriff if he returns, is a restraining order and a shot of Wolfsbane.

  
They make a stop at a gas station. Derek grumbles under his breath as Cora makes her way to the ladies room, and she flips him the bird before disappearing inside. Honestly, doesn’t she get that there’s no time to lose! With each passing second, the chance of getting Stiles back gets slimmer and slimmer.

Desperate not to waste any time, Derek fishes out his phone, scrolling down till he finds Scott’s name, then hits dial. It’s no secret Scott’s not his number one fan. It probably didn’t help his case when he called a few days ago asking for someone no one, Scott included, recalls.

“Derek.”

Scott’s voice isn’t exactly hostile, but it’s a close call. Derek can’t fault him. They only call each other when things are in dire straights.

“Scott,” he counters, the same carefully nuanced tone. On the other end Scott sighs deeply.

“Look, Derek, if this is about - what did you call him? _Scales_? If so, I still don’t remember him, and I think you should consider checking yourself into Eichen.”

“Stiles,” hisses Derek between clenched teeth. He needs to focus to avoid crushing the phone in his fist.

“Excuse me?”

“Stiles,” repeats Derek, the last vestige of patience evaporating from his body. “That’s his name. Or not really. It’s a nick name, but it’s what he likes to be called. Never mind. I was just calling to check if you’d regained any kind of sense, or better yet memories, but I guess it was too much to hope for.”

Derek draws a deep breath and bites his tongue. This isn’t helping. Alienating Scott even more will accomplish nothing.

“You’re rambling.”

Now it’s Derek’s turn to say “Excuse me.”

“I’ve never heard you ramble before,” says Scott. He sounds bemused. “Now, I’m really concerned. I was kidding about Eichen before, but maybe it’s not such a terrible idea. You could share a cell with your lovely Uncle.”

“Great. _Him_ you remember.”

Derek did not need to be reminded of Peter. In fact, if there’s one person on this earth he’d like to have purged from his memories, Peter ranks highest of them all.

“Unfortunately,” sighs Scott and promptly redeems himself slightly in Derek’s eyes. They seldom see eye to eye, but their distrust and borderline hatred for Peter is common ground.

“Look, Derek. I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve been trying to remember. You said we were friends, and you sounded so sure and so panicked…”

He trails off, and for a few uncomfortable seconds the only sound on the line is their labored breathing.

“I’ve never heard you that distraught before, and we’ve been in some deep shit. That scared me,” admits Scott in a low voice. “Still, I - I’m sorry. I don’t remember anyone named Stiles. I wish I did.”

“Me too,” mumbles Derek. He hangs up, not out of anger or to be rude, but more to save face. He’s on the verge of a meltdown and doesn’t want it to happen while on the line with Scott McCall.

Derek doesn’t know how long he just sits there, the simple task of keeping his breathing even and under control a task that takes everything he’s got. He startles when the car door is opened and Cora slides smoothly into the driver’s seat. She hands him a huge cup of steaming coffee.

“You okay?”

It’s clear as day that he’s not, so why lie? He shakes his head, cradling the Styrofoam cup between his hands, allowing the warmth to slowly spread through his fingers, to his palms and beyond. It calms him somewhat. Cora doesn’t offer any platitudes, simply squeezed his shoulder firmly and turns the ignition.

“What now? she asks. Derek takes a slow sip, feeling the warm liquid scold his tongue. He welcomes the sting. Somehow it helps clear his head.

Cora raises an eyebrow when he gives her directions, but drives off without comment. Derek drinks his coffee and mentally prepares.

 

***

 

Turns out he kind of sucks at mental preparations. Either that, or Alan Deaton just brings out the absolute worst in him. Or both.

The animal clinic smells like antiseptics mixed with decease and animal feces. It does nothing to settle his nerves or improve his mood. Unsurprisingly, Dr. Deaton is equally unsurprised to see them. There’s not a skip in his heartbeat, no change in his chemo signals and his face as serene and calm as always. If he didn’t know better, Derek would accuse him of being a robot. Some sort of AI creation. It would explain a lot. Derek finds it hard to trust people with this much control. Deaton’s just too balanced, too unmoved. How can he really trust someone like that?

“Hale,” Deaton says smoothly with a slight nod. It’s unclear if he’s addressing Derek or Cora. Not that it matters. He gestures for them to enter one of the examination rooms. Derek hesitates, and ends up being forcefully shoved inside by Cora. Deaton glides in and closes the door with a soft thud.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” he asks, indicating for them to take a seat. They both remain standing, but it doesn’t seem to faze the vet in any way.

“Scott didn’t tell you?” blurts Derek, foregoing any kind of pleasantries or greetings. Deaton smiles benignly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Stiles!” Derek shouts out, voice on the verge of a growl. “Do you remember Stiles?”

Deaton cocks his head, staring intently from Derek to Cora and back again. “I still don’t follow,” he repeats, and Derek registers the first real emotion coming from the doctor. _Confusion_. It knocks the wind out of him, and he collapses to the floor with a high pitched wine that sets off a flurry of anxious meowing somewhere in the clinic.

Derek tunes everything out. He can vaguely make out Cora and Deaton’s voices somewhere above him, but the words escape him. His chest hurts, each breath a struggle. Dark, terrible thoughts seep in from all angles, threatening to paralyze him completely. He might not trust Deaton, but he was his last hope. The last straw to cling to. If not even an emissary can help, then Derek’s exhausted all his options.

A figure crouches down in front of him.

“The smell is unpleasant, but the effect is very calming,” Deaton tells him, then shoves a damp cloth to his face. Derek's instinct is to attack, but Cora is suddenly at his back, holding him steady. Deaton wasn’t lying. The smell is atrocious. It feels as if every nose hair is burned off and his nostrils coated in pure acid. He gags and for a moment fears he’ll lose control. By the next breath however, the worst is over and his heartbeat’s already calming down. Some of the fog lifts, and by the time Deaton offers him a cup of steaming tea, Derek feels much better.

“I’d advice you to drink it all,” he says with a smile.

“What’s in it?” Derek rasps, giving the liquid a skeptical glare.

“Chamomile tea.”

Cora snorts. Derek glares from her to Deaton and back to the cup.

“I always found a nice cup of tea clears the mind and soothes the soul,” Deaton offers conversationally.

“So, this is just tea? Nothing else?”

“Exactly.” Deaton beams, then quickly raises a finger. “Oh, and a dash of lemon, hope that’s okay.”

“Whatever,” Derek mutters. “I didn’t come for tea. Or motivational quotes.”

Deaton nods. “I gathered as much. You’ve come for Stiles.”

Derek’s heart races again. “So, you do remember him?”

Deaton shakes his head.

“Unfortunately not. Your sister brought me up to speed while you were calming down. I understand you suspect The Wild Hunt took him?”

“It’s a theory,” says Cora. “Derek says Stiles told him about it before he disappeared. He suspected it, and now Derek believes The Hunt took him as well.”

“Well,” said Deaton with a frown, “The Wild Hunt is perhaps the most undocumented supernatural threat we know of. In fact, factions within the supernatural community debate the very existence of The Hunt at all. Some claim it’s just a myth, mostly for lack of evidence.”

“Not easy to collect evidence of things you can’t remember,” mutters Derek darkly.

“Indeed. Excuse me a moment.”

The vet swiftly exits the room without further comment, leaving the siblings with little to do but stare at each other in silence. Derek finally gives in and tries the tea, mentally cursing when it turns out Deaton is right. It’s chamomile. And his mind does feel clearer once he’s finished the cup.

“Where did he go?” he asks. Derek can’t hear him or his heartbeats. All he picks up on are the rabid drums of smaller animals, the occasional bark and some sorrowful whines.

Cora shrugs. “I think he’s in his office. I would’ve heard him if he drove off or left the building.”

“Sound proofed?”

“I guess,” says Cora. “I see the point. Half his acquaintances are supernatural beings. I would want some privacy too. Mom and dad had sound proofed bedroom, remember.”

“Thank you, I had suppressed the horror of that knowledge,” moans Derek. Cora grins widely and waggles her eyebrows in the exact same way Laura had perfected by middle school. He’s suddenly overcome with emotions ranging from annoyance to nostalgia, taking a soul-wrecking detour through sorrow.

A few minutes later Deaton glides back into the room looking uncharacteristically ruffled. He’s carrying several scrolls and a huge leather book that looks to be held together by magic and little else.

“So,” he says dumping everything on top of the examination table. “I’ve had a talk with my sister. She was always more interested in this particular kind of mythos than I was, so I suspected she’d be my best source of information about the Wild Hunt. She recommended we take a look at these, and she’s sending me some more files in a moment.”

It’s not exactly the easy fix Derek was hoping for, but at least Deaton is taking this seriously and the scrolls give them something to do.

The next hours are spent sifting through everything. It’s time consuming work, partly because a fair amount is in some form of Latin that only Deaton can make heads or tails off, and the rest in such messy scrawls it’s almost unreadable. Morrell comes through and sends even more texts via e-mail that Deaton prints out and adds to the pile.

Eventually, after Cora’s talked Derek down from another slight panic attack, and Deaton has brewed half a dozen cups of tea, they’ve read through everything.

“Well,” says Cora, voice fake-cheerful. “That wasn’t a complete waste of time.” Derek growls.

“No? How do you reckon? We haven’t found anything useful!”

Deaton hands Derek a tray of chocolate chip cookies, face serene. Derek’s tempted to upend it, but he’s hungry. He ends up shoving three cookies into his mouth, and chews angrily, glaring daggers at the vet all the while trying to maintain an adult aloofness. If someone were to grade the performance, he'd get a slight nod for effort and fail the rest.

“I disagree.”

Deaton stirs his tea in languid figure eight motions before setting the cup down and grabbing one of the printouts Morrell had sent over.

“There’s no guarantee, but this I do find this interesting. It aligns with other accounts, particularly connected to fae mythology. I’m not inclined to promise it will work, but it’s worth a try.”

He smiles that tight-lipped, almost emotionless smile of his, and Derek wants to strangle him slowly with the string on his teabag. Cora evidently senses his distress, and smoothly moves in between them, taking control of the conversation.

“What’s worth a try?” she asks, a calming hand on Derek’s pulse point.

“There are many accounts about the power of a name,” says Deaton calmly. “Particularly in conjunction with fairies. The lore suggests knowing a fairy’s real name will give you power over said being.”

“Stiles is hardly a fairy,” snaps Derek indignantly. He more senses than sees Cora chew her bottom lip to suppress a smile.

“Never claimed he was.”

Deaton is the epitome of calm.

“There is however claims the Wild Hunt is connected to fae, or the fairy Otherworld. This in turn has caused speculation that perhaps what keeps the ones taken by the Hunt captive is connected to their names. The theory is that the Hunt erases all memories of the captured. In a sense their names are lost to us. We can’t name them because we don’t remember them. The hunt has taken their names, and thus holds power over them. For them to return, some have speculated their names need to be reclaimed.”

“Huh.” Cora leans back into her chair. “That actually kind of make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Derek’s pacing. “I remember Stiles! I’ve said his name a thousand times since he disappeared. I even went to his house, stood outside where I know his room is supposed to be and called out for him, and nada!”

“Calling out for him and calling him by his name, are two entirely different things,” says Deaton patiently. He’s so infuriatingly calm, Derek feels a burning need to whack him across the face. Or break his tea cups. Somehow he has a feeling that would hurt him more.

“You’re talking in riddles! That’s the same thing!”

“No, it’s not.” Cora sounds genuinely excited, her eyes alight with what Derek longs for more than anything. Hope.

“You said so yourself when talking to the sheriff. We call him Stiles, but that’s not his name. Not his real name.”

The room falls silent while this realization sinks in. Somehow even the animals are quiet. Almost as if they can sense the importance of this moment, and how Derek needs all the help he can to process. To remember.

“I - I don’t know his real name,” he whispers eventually.

“He never told you?”

For the first time Deaton sounds almost emotional. Disappointed even. Derek shakes his head.

“No. I never thought to ask. Of course I knew Stiles isn’t his real name, it’s just - I dunno, it suited him somehow. He was just - Stiles. I never even felt curious. Except…”

“Except you heard his dad call out to him once, right? Using his real name.” Cora is leaning forward now, eyes wide with excitement. “You told the sheriff. Something starting with an M, wasn’t it? Polish sounding?”

Derek shrugs. “I think so. I’m not sure, thought. I - I can’t remember.”

He sinks to the floor, banging his head in frustration against the filing cabinets. Out of the corner of his eyes he vaguely registers Deaton rummaging around in a cupboard. He comes back carrying a tray of glass jars, all with handwritten labels, carefully spelled out in swirly calligraphy. He proceeds to open half a dozen, mixing what looks like herbs into a mortar.

“Rosemary, Ginseng,” he mutters under his breath, dashing back to the cabinet to retrieve even more stuff. “Ah, yes that’ll do nicely.”

“What are you doing?”

“Mixing up a little something that might help bring the memory to the surface.”

The vet crushes more herbs with a vengeance before ordering Cora to boil more water. Within minutes Derek stares dubiously at yet another cup of tea, this time with a murky mud color and an odor reminiscent of rotten cabbage.

“You want me to drink this?”

“Yes,” implores Deaton. “For maximum effect, please drink it all down at once, no sips. Also, it’s best to just get it over with. It tastes about as good as it smells, I’m afraid.”

“Lovely,” drawls Derek sarcastically, looking to Cora for strength.

“Down the hatch,” are her words of encouragement, and what the hell. Better get it over with. How bad can it possibly be?

 

  
**

 

  
As it turns out, it’s not just bad. It’s _horrendous_.

Derek finds himself hunched over the toilet, tears streaming down his cheeks and his stomach wrecked with violent cramps. He dry-heaves a few times, before even more of his stomach content splashes into the water bowl. When rhe cramps finally subside Derek feels like he’s gone seventeen rounds with a Zamboni and lost.

Cora hunches down next to him, handing him a glass of water.

“All done?”

“I think so,” he wheezes, collapsing to the floor in a semi-fetal position. The tiles are cold and uncomfortable, the room stinks and he feels like death warmed over. Worse yet, he still can’t remember Stiles’ real name.

Deaton appears in the doorway looking contrite.

“What the hell did you put in that thing?” rasps Derek between mouthfuls of water. Half of the content drips down his chin and onto his Henley. He doesn’t even care. It’s ruined anyway.

“Ginseng, Rosemary, Sage, a bit of Rhodiola Rosea, you know, the usual stuff.”

“In that case, “the usual stuff” is probably intended to kill your nemesis and not used as a memory retriever. Just FYI.”

Deaton wrings his hands nervously, his smile looking falser than usual. “I might have included a smidge of Wolfsbane,” he admits. “Just a pinch to lower your body’s natural response to fight the effect of these herbs. In hindsight I might have overdone it, just a bit.”

Cora steps between them like a human shield, probably sensing Derek’s instinct to maim.

“Never again,” he hisses, pointing at Deaton with a claw, just to get his point across as clearly as possible. “I’ve had people do stuff to me too many times in the past without asking permission, you included. That’s not okay!”

“I was only trying to help.”

Derek growls. “Seeing as I don’t really trust you in the first place, I have no idea if that’s even remotely true. I still remember your many unhelpful moments, not to mention the time you and Scott colluded to poison Gerard and used me as a Werewolf Pez Dispenser to bite him. Let’s just say I’m not ready to do Trust Falls with you anytime soon.”

He struggles to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall for a few moments, waiting for the dizziness to go away. “I’m done with your help,” he announces, then stomps towards the exit.

“Derek!”

Deaton calls out, but Derek ignores him, gesturing for Cora to follow. Only they can’t leave. Both let out whoops of pain when they collide forcefully against an invisible barrier in the reception area.

“ _Mountain Ash_? Really?”

Derek twirls around, glaring murderously at the vet. Deaton’s holding his hands up, a sheepish look on his face.

“I’ll lift it momentarily,” he reassures moving closer. “I understand your reaction and I’ll allow you to leave. I just want the opportunity to say two things.”

It’s not like they have any choice in the matter. Derek settles for crossing his arms and giving him the stink eye. He might be forced to waste time on whatever Deaton wants to say, but he refuses to waste any words on him. Childish, yes. But also damned satisfactory.

“Okay,” begins Deaton, looking from Cora to Derek and back. “First I would like to apologize. I should have informed you of my wish to make the tea more potent by the aid of Wolfsbane. I see the error in my judgment.”

With the freaky way Deaton controls his heartbeat, it’s impossible for Derek to know if he’s telling the truth or not. He settles for a grumpy shrug. Deaton seems to interpret it positively.

“The second thing I wanted to say was that there is an alternative method to retrieving memories. The probability of success depends highly on finding a suitable person to perform the ritual. Someone with the right kind of experience. Sadly, the only one I can think of is - well, unavailable.”

Derek breaks his vow of silence to spit out “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, of course!”

Cora whirls on Derek, grabbing his arm. “Oh, you’re not going to like this,” she adds. “You’re not gonna like this one bit.”

 

  
***

 

 

“My, my. This really is an unexpected treat.”

Derek fights to recoil as the voice he’d hoped to never hear again, hits his eardrums. He grinds his teeth so hard the sound actually echoes off the concrete walls. If it wasn’t for Cora’s steady touch at his back he’d probably do something stupid. Like try to punch his way into the cell in front of him. It would be a useless endeavor, seeing how it’s protected by mountain ash. Still, even if it is just a sliver of a chance it could wipe the smug grin off his uncle’s face it would be worth a bit of pain. It really is a testament to his desperation that he doesn’t.

If Deaton’s right, he needs Peter. It’s a depressing thought.

“Mr. Hale,” urges Dr. Fenris in a slightly high-pitched voice, slithering between Derek and the cell glass with surprising agility. “Need I remind you that you signed a sworn affidavit you would adhere to our safety protocols. Please step away from the glass window. And no touching!”

He clearly means business. Not surprising really, considering the facility has been compromised not once, but twice in just a few months. Derek can’t blame him for being paranoid and cautious. In fact, kudos should be given to Deaton for arranging this in the first place. It just goes to further Derek’s suspicions that Deaton is much more than meets the eye.

“I remember,” he snarls, never breaking eye contact with his uncle. Peter in turn looks - well, he actually looks kind of good. Not exactly what you want to find when you visit the relative you locked up for being a homicidal maniac.

Derek sweeps past Fenris again, like they’re pieces in a wacky game of Jenga, pinning Peter with his iciest glover. Predictably, it only serves to amuse and not intimidate. In fact, Peter takes the time to meticulously remove invisible lint from his t-shirt, one eyebrow raised almost into his hairline. Unable to control his emotions, Derek bangs his fist against the barrier. The sting of the mountain ash is almost welcome, and provides something to anchor him. Fangs out, snarling, he steps back slowly.

“I specifically said no touching! One more outburst like that, Mr. Hale, and I’ll rescind the permission I’ve reluctantly given you,” warns Fenris. His upper lip is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his heartbeat is elevated. Derek raises his hands in the universal ‘I’ll be a good boy’ gesture. Fenris looks far from convinced.

“My nephew was always a bit of a hothead,” drawls Peter unhelpfully. “Did you know, Dr. Fenris, that he struggled to control his shift during full moons as late as senior year of high school? It was touch and go there for a few moments, but thanks to my quick wit and steady hand, I managed to reign him in. If he’s here today, it’s because he needs a favor. Needs for his favorite uncle to help him out of whatever pickle I’m sure he’s tangled himself in. Between you and me, he’s got a bit of a savior complex, buckets of self-loathing issues, and a penchant for throwing himself into things without thought for consequences.”

He tuts, head cocked. “Ever so predictable.”

Dr. Fenris shakes his head in that practiced manner seasoned psychiatrists and tired parents have dibs on.

“Thank you for your analysis, Peter. Unwanted as always.”

“Story of my life,” shrugs Peter. He appears unaffected, but his eyes betray him. For a split second Derek almost pities him. It passes quickly. Peter has that effect on people.

“So, please enlighten me to the purpose of your visit. How may I be of service?”

Derek doesn’t answer. Instead he backs away further. He’s desperate, yes, but this seems reckless. Too reckless, even. Stiles would not approve. He found Peter amusing at times, but never trusted him. And Derek trusts Stiles. Trusts his intuition, his gut feelings. Only, Stiles is not here now, and this might be the only way to get him back. It’s quite the pickle.

Cora grabs his elbow, halting his retreat. “You sure you want to back out?” she murmurs.

“I don’t trust him,” mumbles Derek, gut churning.

“You both know I can hear you, right?” asks Peter, voice a simper. Cora and Derek throw him twin rays of contempt. His sister then steps in front of him, blocking Peter from view, catching Derek’s eye.

“I know you don’t trust him. I don’t trust him either for that matter. I mean, his murderous record speaks for itself.” She draws a deep breath. “I just don’t want you to have any regrets. Ask yourself this: If you walk away now, without giving this a try, can you live with the uncertainty of what good it might produce?”

Cora is right. Derek knows this. Of course he does. He can’t just give up on getting Stiles back, not when a solution is so close and possibly locked inside his own mind. He’ll do it. Derek knew that as soon as Deaton suggested it. He knows Peter can do this. He’s witness him do it to Isaac once, jamming his claws into his neck to access suppressed memories. He even did it to Derek using his mother's claws. The procedure doesn’t scare him. Not really. It’s more what Peter might possibly find if he grants him access. About the fire. About Paige. About… feelings.

He squares his shoulders, steps out from behind Cora and faces Peter head on.

“I need you to help me find a memory.”

Peter’s face splits into a wide grin, cog wheels already churning by the look of things.

“Do you now?” he asks coyly, brandishing his right hand, claws out and ready. “This should be interesting.”

 

**

 

It takes a bit to effort to persuade Dr. Fenris to allow Derek inside Peter’s cell. In fact, it takes more than just effort. After arguing with the man for a solid half hour without getting anywhere, Derek gives up and calls Deaton. He was the one to get them a visit to Eichen in the first place, so clearly he has some sort of sway with the doctor. Or leverage. No matter, it gets the job done and before long Derek sits, apprehensive and jittery on the rickety chair inside Peter’s sparely decorated living quarters.

“Nice digs,” he says sarcastically, taking in the overflowing bookshelf. It’s packed full of cheesy romance novels and self help books.

“Thank you,” says Peter conversationally. “Just let me know if you want to borrow something from my library. Dr. Fenris allows for us to have access to books, which is magnanimous of him. He does however have the privilege of picking out the titles. He’s either a man of simple tastes or great cruelty. It’s hard to tell.”

“Suddenly I have new respect for the man,” drawls Derek, earning himself a flick to the back of his head.

“Play nicely, nephew. Remember, I’m about to jam my claws into your neck. A slight miscalculation and I might nick an artery. Or server your spine.”

“Do your job well, and I’ll personally make sure your library is updated.”

Peter smiles in delight before a shadow falls over his face.

“For the love of God, no Twilight,” he pleads.

A rap on the glass startle them both.

“Hey, get a move on, why don’t ya!” Cora shoots them both annoyed glares. “This place gives me the creeps”

“So,” says Peter waggling his fingers. “What exactly are we looking for in that nuggin of yours?”

“Stiles,” mutters Derek under his breath. Peter freezes, his face suddenly alight with glee.

“Really now?” he crows in mirthful delight.

“What? Do you remember him?”

Peter shakes his head, still grinning.

“Nope. I haven’t the foggiest who this person with the ridiculous name is, but you’re giving off interesting chemo signals. This should be fun.”

“ _Fun_ ” is not the word Derek would choose. _Apprehension_ covers it more aptly.

When Peter’s claws bore into his neck, the sting of pain washes through him like a tsunami, the ache a foreboding sign. Then everything goes black.

 

 

***

 

  
The surroundings are blurry. Like Derek are looking through an unfocused lens, trying desperately to zoom in on details in an unfamiliar image.

Gradually shapes emerge from the fog, colors seep in. The first thing he notices is a board, and his heart speeds up in anticipation. Derek is pretty sure Stiles was in his room when his dad called him by his real name, which means it’s probably his crazy murder board. A slow grin spreads across his face. This was easier than anticipated.

 _Too easy_ , a voice in his head chirps. It sounds remarkably like Laura. Derek blocks it out. Why can’t it be easy for once? He deserves that after all the crap -

Wait a minute!

Dread washes over him. No no no! He shouldn’t be able to see the murder board. Not if this is the right memory. They’d been on the phone. Derek hadn’t seen Stiles or his board that day.

Fuck!

Derek blinks rapidly, refocusing on the board, and - . Crap! It’s a board, but not the one he wants to see. Instead, it’s a blackboard.

“Peter, you miserable bastard, what have you done,” he hisses through clenched teeth, slowly taking in his surroundings, quickly recognizing the unmistakable dreary decor of Beacon Hills High School. He’s in a History class judging by the notes on World War II on the board. Unwanted echoes of endlessly boring classes with Mrs. Miller come rushing back. It was all such a waste. Derek liked history, actually enjoyed his textbook. Too bad the teacher’s super power was to suck every shred of motivation out of her students. Derek had spent most classes doodling in his notebook. Mostly ideas for basketball plays or badly drawn wolves. Sometimes werewolves playing basketball. He always thought that’d make a cool movie.

What he doesn’t get is why he’s here. He can’t remember ever being in a history classroom with Stiles. He’s been to the school a few times to see him, Scott or the others, but never this room. Why on earth would Peter guide his memories to this point?

Derek glances down and stops breathing. The notebook is full of familiar doodles. Werewolf-in-basketball-shorts familiar.

“What the fuck?”

He turns his head slowly, and that’s Jack Bowman sitting next to him. He’s on the basketball team with Derek, which means this isn’t a memory from recent years at all.

Derek jerks to his feet, the chair toppling to the floor with a loud bang. No one bats an eyelash. Why would they? It’s a memory after all, their actions prerecorded and unchangeable. The only thing different is Derek.

He bursts for the door, expecting to enter the hallway, but instead he’s suddenly in the middle of the basketball court, a game well underway. The stands are filled to bursting with hollering supporters, the stupid mascot with its over-sized head skipping up and down the court side, weaving in and out between ecstatic cheerleaders. Everything is motion. Except Derek. He's frozen in place.

“Get your head in the game, Hale!”

It’s Jack Bowman, red-faced and sweaty, gesturing angrily from the scoreboard and to Derek’s still form. They’re down by 10 points. Derek tries to move, but only manages a few short spasms before he spots Laura in the stands, waving a huge neon yellow sign, covered in glitter, the letters **_Go Der-bear!_** beaming against his retinas.

He drinks her in. The long, dark hair, her infectious grin, the glimmer of her mischievous eyes. He hadn’t noticed her that day. Or, that’s clearly not true. This is his memories after all, but at the time he hadn’t registered her or her stupid sign. He knows what day this is now, and his heart aches as a result. They’d won the game by one measly point, and no thanks to him. Laura’s poster has nothing to do with his distraction, though. She’d been annoyed and perturbed during dinner that night, unable to get neither a rise or an explanation for his poor performance out of him.

Derek knows what days this is. He’d felt out of sorts ever since he arrived at school that day. Unbalanced and jittery. Almost as if his body knew everything was about to change. Derek feels his heart quicken, knowing what comes next and failing to see what it has to do with Stiles. He’d been very specific in his directives to Peter! He wanted to remember Stiles’ real name. How could this moment, this memory, be connected to that?

“You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” he sneers, pivoting on the spot, almost expecting to find Peter gloating on the sideline. Only, he’s not there. Jack Bowman, however, is.

“Hale! What the fuck, man?!”

“Sorry,” Derek mutters. “I just spaced out. I’m alright.”

“You better be. We’re getting creamed!”

The bell blears, signaling the end of the period and all the players slink off court, Derek trailing behind them, nose twitching, like there’s something in the air. Something significant. He pushes it out of his mind, following his team mates into the locker room.

However, when he steps through the door, the location shifts again. He’s still at school, only this time he’s in the corridor west of the locker rooms. It’s unfamiliar territory, mostly auditoriums reserved for the music programs. Derek almost recoils at the deja vu of the situation. He remember this moment vividly. Remembers her.

 _Paige_.

This was the first time he laid eyes on her. He can already hear the soothing rumble of her cello in the distance, calling out to him. Knows that when he steals a peek through the little window in the door, his heart will skip, his breath hitch and his life change forever.

It’s a memory both dear and feared. If he’d never looked, Paige might be alive and well today. It’s a game of “what if” that he’s played repeatedly for years. The outcome never changes.

As he draws nearer, the edges of the corridor starts to blur, the line of vision slowly shrinking. Derek stops in front of the nondescript door, heart threatening to beat it down. Slowly, glacially, he leans forward, focusing on the smooth movement inside the room. When Paige comes into focus, it brings back an onslaught of memories. God, how he’d loved her!

When the image of Paige eventually fades to black, Derek takes with him a distinct smell of pine and honeysuckle, the words “Grandma always said love smelled like that,” whispered into the nothingness.

 

  
***

 

  
When Derek’s vision comes back, he’s in the Preserve.

“Peter!” he snarls, turning around slowly in a futile attempt to piece together when exactly this is. It’s not recent in any event. It’s been months since he was in Beacon Hills last, so how this links to learning Stiles’ name is beyond him. He expected mind games from Peter, just not this kind. He’d been prepared for pokes into his past with Kate and the fire. Not random moments of little significance.

“When your claws are out of my neck, I’m gonna wring yours,” he hisses venomously. It might be a trick of the wind, but he swears he can hear his uncle’s gleeful cackle in the distance. Or maybe it’s just the wind.

Whatever.

There’s nothing else to do besides start walking. It’s not like he can scent what year this is. He needs to find people, houses, civilization of some sort, preferably also a door. That seems to be the transition to the next memory.

At first he can’t pick up any other scents besides animals, birds and nature. There’s an almost overpowering smell of pine in the air, but then again he’s in a forest, so it’s not exactly surprising. It seems to mix with the smell of mint and - Derek stops to concentrate his senses. He almost laughs out loud when his mind comes up with “mojito”, which makes absolutely no sense at all. There’s never been any bars around here, and even when teenagers congregate to get drunk it’s almost exclusively on beers or pilfered liquor, and not fanciful drinks.

He starts walking again, but just a few steps forward and he stops again. Are that - voices?

“I don't - I don't know what it was. It was like I had all the time in the world to catch the ball. And that's not the only weird thing. I - I can - hear stuff I shouldn't be able to hear. Smell things.”

Derek freezes. That’s Scott’s voice! Suddenly he knows with perfect clarity exactly where and when this is. The day after Scott was bitten. The day after Laura was killed.

Which means -

“Smell things? Like what?”

This is also his first meeting with Stiles in all his buzz-cut, sarcastic glory.

“Like the mint - mojito gum in your pocket.”

Derek freezes. So that’s where the mojito smell came from!

“I don't even have any mint - mojito - So all this started with a bite?”

“What if it's like an infection, like, my body's flooding with adrenaline before I go into shock or something?”

“You know what? I actually think I've heard of this - It's a specific kind of infection.”

Derek remembers this all too well. How shocked he’d been to hear the lanky kid with the moles so effortlessly and quickly diagnose Scott’s condition. At the time he’d been sure Stiles was in the know. Turns out he’s just smart. Really smart.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think it's called - lycanthropy.”

“What's that? Is that bad?”

God, Scott sounds terrified. Like he’s just contracted the Black Plague or something. Derek finds himself grinning at the memory.

“Oh, yeah, it's the worst. But only once a month.”

“Once a month?”

“Mm - hmm. On the night of the full moon.”

Derek moves closer just as Stiles does a terrible imitation of a howl. Clearly, Scott’s not impressed either.

“Hey, you're the one who heard a wolf howling,” snickers Stiles, tripping after Scott, all limbs and little finesse.

“Hey, there could be something seriously wrong with me,” whines Scott. Stiles throws his arms out, face split in a wide grin.

“I know! You're a werewolf! Rrr! Okay, obviously I'm kidding. But if you see me in shop class trying to melt all the silver I can find, it's 'cause Friday's a full moon.”

“No, I - I could have sworn this was it.”

Scott has stopped and is looking around, frustration oozing from him like cheap perfume. It momentarily drowns out the pine and mojito mix that’s still dominating Derek’s nostrils.

“I saw the body, the deer came running. I dropped my inhaler.”

Derek’s body freezes at the mention of Laura's body.

“Maybe the killer moved the body,” suggests Stiles, once again being dead right. This pair of idiots would soon dig it up, buried outside the remnants of Derek’s childhood home. God, these weren’t happy memories at all. Screw Peter and his warped sense of humor!

“If he did, I hope he left my inhaler. Those things are like 80 bucks.”

And that’s Derek’s cue to enter the scene. He does so face stony, back stiff. He fights to suppress a grin when Stiles freezes, nudges Scott and then proceeds to fidget, heavy waves of some unreadable mix of fear, intrigue and - no. Absolutely not. Derek shakes off that discovery and what it might mean, and instead intensifies his glower at the teenagers.

“What are you doing here? Huh? This is private property.”

“Uh, sorry, man, we didn't know,” mumbles Stiles, running a spastic hand over his short hair. God, he looked so young back then.

“Yeah, we were just looking for something, but - Uh, forget it.”

Without conscious thought Derek pulls out Scott’s inhaler from his jacket pocket and throws it unceremoniously at him. Scott catches it deftly, werewolf instincts fully operational already. He then turns on the spot and marches away, fighting the overpowering need to throw a glance over his shoulder.

“Uhm. All right, come on, I gotta get to work,” Derek hears Scott mumble.

“Dude, that was Derek Hale!” Stiles sounds so excited, like he just discovered Christmas has come early. “You remember, right? He's only like a few years older than us.”

Derek’s safely out of sight now, so he takes the chance to hide up in a tree to spy on the two teens.

“Remember what?”

Scott seems too gobsmacked to have his inhaler back to register Stiles’ excitement.

“His family!” hisses Stiles, arms going in all directions. “They all burned to death in a fire, like, ten years ago.”

More like eight years, corrects Derek in his head with a slight eye roll. Still, it’s impressive that Stiles knows this. Remembers it even. God, he couldn’t have been much more than 7 or 8 years old at the time.

“I wonder what he's doing back.”

Derek dearly wishes he wasn’t. Back, that is. Sadly, there’s no escaping Beacon Hills.

“Come on,” says Stiles, casting one last look in Derek’s direction, before tugging on Scott’s sleeve and start walking away. A wave of overwhelming smell hits Derek like a wrecking ball, causing him to lose his grip and fall down with a soft thud and a painful groan.

As the edges of his vision once again blur, a realization registers in his mind, so clear, so undeniable. So unwanted, yet inescapable.

“My grandma wasn’t so crazy after all,” he half whispers, drifting off in a haze of pine and honeysuckle.

 

  
***

 

  
Derek’s eyes fly open, then blinks rapidly several times, but all he sees is white.

“Where the fuck am I?” he mutters, turning his head sideways, catching sight of an open window, light and almost see-through curtains billowing in the warm breeze. He’s on a bed, that much is clear, and it’s damned comfortable. The kind of mattress you want to steal away and keep forever.

Derek’s heartbeat speeds up. This could be it! This is definitely his room in Chile. Derek relaxes, letting the memory take control, feeling himself blend into the situation, intent on drinking in every tiny detail of their conversation.

  
“I’m hanging up now.”

“But I wanna hear about Chile,” Stiles whines.

“I’ll tell you later. I’ve got to get up anyway. Cora is taking me hiking.”

Stiles is silent for a beat, then -

“Send me a picture. From your hike, I mean. I know nothing about Chile. Educate me, bitch!”

Derek snorts, feeling oddly fond.

“Sometimes I’m convinced you’ve got Tourettes,” he says dead-pan. Stiles huffs on the other end.

“I just Jesse Pinkman’d you, and you’re clueless to the fact. Once again, Breaking Bad. Watch it, and I’ll swear you’ll get the ‘bitch’ reference. It’s a pop cultural thing,” he adds in a sickly sweet tone that has Derek grinding his teeth. If Stiles was here, he’d totally whack him over the head with a pillow. Cheeky little bastard!

“I’ll think about it,” he drawls instead, lifting his head slightly when he hears the door nob to his room turn. A second later Cora sticks her head inside, lips curled in a knowing smirk. Derek flips her the bird.

“STILES!”

The annoyed baritone of Sheriff Stilinski carries loud and clear even to Derek’s ears.

“Shit!” hisses Stiles, and Derek can practically envision his caught-in-headlights look.

“Someone’s in trouble,” he sing-songs. Cora’s now entered the room, leaning against his dresser and making cooing noises. Derek throws a pillow her way, but misses by several feet.

“ _MIECZYSLAW_!”

That’s it!! Derek jolts out of the memory, suddenly looking at the rest of the scene from across the room. Like Harry Potter when he stuck his nose into Dumbledore’s Pensive.

He watches himself say “What was that?”, voice mirthful and remembers Stiles claiming his dad sneezed.

“ _Mieczyslaw_ ,” he mumbles to himself, feeling the name out on his tongue, how it rolls. It fits him. Not as well as Stiles does. He’ll always be Stiles. And yet, it’s not as bad as he’s made it out to be.

A hand suddenly grabs his shoulder, and when he turns Derek stares into Peter’s uncharacteristically solemn face.

“You’ve learned what you need to know,” he says, nodding firmly. “It’s time to go back now.”

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Derek’s vibrating with excitement, apprehension, fear, elation, doubt, and the most dangerous emotion of them all - _hope_.

He’s perched underneath one of the windowsills at the Stilinski house, listening to the Sheriff’s calm breathing and trying to get his own nerves under control. It’s a losing battle. How can he possibly be calm when he might just hold the key to getting Stiles back? It should be a cause for celebration and rejoice - providing it works, of course. It’s all based on a theory after all. Deaton’s theory no less, which doesn’t really lend it much credence to begin with. But Derek’s desperate. Desperate enough to enlist wacky uncle Peter even, so this better work. It has to work!

The second Peter’s claws had left his neck, Derek bolted from the cell, ignoring everyone. He’d let instinct take over, transforming into a wolf before he even left the confines of Eichen House. He’d taken the most direct route to Stiles’ house through the Preserve at a breakneck speed.

It had taken him less than 15 minutes to arrive, and yet almost half an hour later, he’s still crouched outside in his animal form, trying to gather the wits to confront the Sheriff once again. Derek is halfheartedly considering simply breaking in, but dismisses it quickly. He might not be high up on sheriff Stilinski’s Christmas card list at the moment, but Derek respects the man enough to want to do this the right way.

Which brings him right back to square one. He needs to pluck up the courage to face him again. To persuade the sheriff to give him another shot. To trust this crazy tale of a son he can’t remember…

And herein lies the problem. Derek’s not exactly a smooth talker on the best of days. Add nerves, anxiety and fear to the mix, and he’s more or less reduced to monosyllable grunts, threats and sarcasm, none of which he thinks will work wonders for his case. He’s not even sure where to begin to explain this latest theory, and is semi-seriously contemplating calling Deaton over to assist. It’s in moments like this Derek sort of sees the merit of questionable morals. Breaking in really would be easier.

“There you are, wolfy!”

A lump of cloth is dumped unceremoniously in front of him. Derek instantly recognizes it as the clothes he’d shed during his transformation. He tilts his head slightly only to be met with Cora’s frankly pissed off face. In the blinding glare of the setting sun, she looks startlingly like Laura, down to the tilt of her hip and the tense line her mouth is set in.

“That’s right, grumpy paws!” she snarls. “I’ve mastered the art of hiding my scent, too. Handy at times I must say. I wouldn’t put it past you to run off again if I’d announced by presence. So, I resorted to some werewolf ninja moves. Either you’re awfully distracted or I’m hella good. Don’t answer that,” she adds, fingers pointing at him like little daggers. “Let me live in plausible denial.”

Derek lets out a pitiful whimper that has Cora rolling her eyes like a World Champion.

“Oh, shut your snout, asshole! You’re a runner, Derek. Always have been. Just look how you ran off to Chile instead of facing your god damned feelings. If you’d smelled me coming now, I bet you’d run off to hide somewhere. Anything to avoid talking, especially about emotions, right? Which is why I wasn’t taking any chances.”

She huffs, then crouches down in front of him, grabbing hold of his neck to nuzzle into the fur. It’s exactly what he needs and is to chicken-shit to admit to, let alone ask for. Derek’s got so many conflicting emotions coursing through him he wouldn’t know where to start even if he wanted to.

“So,” mutters Cora while scratching him behind the ears. “What happened exactly? Peter was less than forthcoming.” Her lip curls in wry grin. “I socked him on the chin. Dr. Fenris tossed me out after that. I doubt we’ll be let in again. No great loss, really, so totally worth it.”

Derek yips approvingly. The sound causes the sheriff to pause the game he’s watching. They both hold their breath, but after a few seconds he starts it again, mumbling to himself about stray mutts.

Eventually, Derek shrugs off Cora’s hands and slinks off towards the somewhat ramshackle shed in the backyard. Cora trails after him, picking up the pile of clothing again with a perturbed sigh.

“So,” she says as she shuts the door behind them, removing a handful of cobwebs from her hair. “Are you gonna face the music or what? If so, I recommend you change back into human form. I doubt the Sheriff is fluent in wolfish either, so - _Oh, Jesus_!”

She stops mid-sentence, lets out a horrified groan and pivots on the spot like a mortified ballerina.

“God, a little warning next time!” She shakes her head, cursing. “Good thing I brought your clothes. I doubt the Sheriff would let you in again if you showed up in your birthday suit. In that case, wolf form would be preferable.”

“Hilarious,” Derek mutters, voice a bit scratchy and raw. Everything feels a bit off-kilter the first few minutes after changing, like his body needs some time to recalibrate from man to wolf and back again. He steps into his jeans in jerky motions, feeling more than a little off-balance. By the time he’s lacing up his shoes, he’s starting to come into his own skin again.

“Perhaps this Stiles character will appreciate you butt naked,” Cora muses teasingly, still turned away from him. “But I suggest you start off wearing clothes. If you want to win over your future father-in-law, who is you know, actually a _father_ and _“in law”_ , you should probably dress modestly.”

Derek growls as he struggles into his Henley, praying for his glowing cheeks to fade before they step out of the dimly lit shed.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” he mumbles. Cora chortles, inspecting her cuticles with a superior air.

“Yes, I am,” she disagrees cheekily. “I’m hilarious. You just said so yourself.”

Derek’s unable to muster up even the lamest of comebacks. Crippling doubt grips him again, threatening to squash his heart under its impossible weight. There’s no way this can work! What was he even thinking getting worked up over this? _The power of a name?_ Honestly! The concept is ludicrous at best.

“So?” Cora drags out the o, gesturing for him to start talking. “Don’t keep me in suspense! Did you learn his name?”

Derek nods, fighting between giddiness and crippling fear. “I - yes. I think so.”

“Well? Don’t keep me waiting. Or guessing,” she adds with a grimace. “I would never get it right. I’ve seen Polish names. It’s like 90% consonants. That shit’s not natural.”

“No,” says Derek. “I won’t tell you. Not here,” he clarifies when Cora’s face falls. “I - I dunno. I have this feeling it needs to be said by his room. Close to him. Close to where he belongs.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Cora’s eyes are wild with excitement, arms flailing. Derek on the other hand feels paralyzed.

“Let’s go!” she says, tugging at his sleeve, but he’s like a granite statue, immovable.

“What if it doesn’t work.”

Just saying the words hurt. Cuts like a million knives, razor-sharp and deadly. Derek senses Cora’s sympathy; feels it hit him and wrap around him like a blanket. Comforting, yet not enough to keep out the icy gusts of fear.

“Then we’ll try something else.”

Cora’s words a firm, confident. There’s no lie behind them.

“I will help you look until we either find him or have exhausted every lead, however far-fetched they might be.” She grips his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “This is a case of trial and error. Which means we’ll have to try before we dismiss it as a failure. And if it fails - .” She draws a deep breath. “Then we’ll face that together. You’re not alone, Derek. All you need is to let me in.”

A choked sob escapes him. Cora doesn’t comment, but doesn’t let go of his hand either. It’s obvious she’s waiting for him to make the next move. She’s offered him everything a brother could want - trust, belief and unconditional love. All Derek has to do is accept it, and hold on to it for as long as he can. Everyone he’s ever trust with his heart, have either died or betrayed him, then left him bruised and broken. He’s petrified Cora might be next.

“You’re not alone, Derek,” she whispers. Like she can sense his inner struggle.

“I know,” he raps, surprised of how easily the words roll of his tongue, and how much he means it.

“Good,” she smiles, ruffling his hair. “I knew you were smart underneath all that gruff broodiness.” She gestures towards the door. “Now, why don’t we go give this crazy Deaton fae theory a shot, huh? Who knows, perhaps it can bring you one more person to open up to.”

Derek takes a deep breath, trying to get the buzzing adrenaline in his blood to quiet down. It’s a losing battle. So he decides to stop fighting it, and just go with the flow. Things can’t possibly get much worse, anyway.

“I’m ready,” he says and pushes the door open.

 

  
***

 

The sheriff on the other hand, is not ready. Not even close.

“No! Absolutely not. Not a chance in hell, Hale! Wait - let me rephrase that. _Hale no_!”

It’s such a Stiles comment and in that moment it’s easy to see how much he actually takes after his dad, right down to the steadfast stubbornness and dry sarcasm. Sheriff Stilinski’s arms are crossed and his glare so steely Derek’s regretting his decision to involve him at all. He should have wolf-looped up to the open second floor window and done his business before the sheriff even noticed the breaking and entering.

“Sheriff, if I could just try one thing -”

“You already tried one thing, Derek. I’ll have you know your little stunt and crazy tale has left me unsettled, revisiting bad memories about my late wife and how we never managed to conceive a child. I beg you to leave well enough alone. Need I remind you that I’ve got the power to issue a restraining order in a jiffy. Or have you detained for harassment?”

“But, I spoke to Deaton and he’s got this theory -”

The sheriff burst out laughing, only it sounds anything but amused.

“ _Deaton_? The veterinarian? And this makes things better how, exactly? He’s got a way with animals, I’ll give him that. But other than that he’s just an eccentric man who I suspect is self-medicating on horse tranquilizers or snorting cat food. You’re not exactly selling this idea to me by bringing him into the mix.”

“Okay, okay,” says Derek hurriedly, raising his arms in surrender. “No Deaton, got it. I’m not really a huge fan either, so no great loss. It’s just, he told me there’s power in names. Everyone except me has forgotten about Stiles. Forgotten his name and his existence. If we call him by his name, it might break the spell.”

The sheriff puts a warning hand on Derek’s chest, halting his attempt to step into the house.

“Nice try,” he snorts. “You’ve already told me his name, and it’s a ridiculous one. I’m telling you there’s no one here besides me. Unless he’s got an invisibility cloak. If so, I think there’s a whole other talk we need to have and I’ll need a minute to wrap my head around my new status as a Muggle.”

Behind him Cora laughs, patting Derek on the back.

“I like him,” she says, grinning widely. “He’s cheeky. If your Stiles is anything like his dad, I can sort of see why you’re so set on getting him back.”

Derek glances over his shoulder, pinning her with a stern glare. She however simply shrugs, seemingly innocently. Derek’s not fooled. When he turns back, he’s startled to find the Sheriff has stepped closer, eyes narrow.

“What do you mean “your Stiles”, he asks, a dangerous edge to his voice. “I thought you said he was my son.”

“He is. He’s also my friend.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” sing-songs Cora. “You luuuuuv - mphff.”

Derek smiles unconvincingly at the sheriff, one hand clamped over Cora’s mouth.

“So, you have been lying to me,” says the sheriff.

“No!”

Oh, god. No matter what he says or does, Derek seems to just ensnare himself deeper and deeper into a maze of bad explanations and unconvincing arguments. His frustration is building at rapid speed.

“I’m not lying. I just want the chance to see if this theory is right. It’s a long shot, I freely admit that, and if it doesn’t work, I swear to stay away.”

Sheriff Stilinski regards him, head cocked for a minute. Derek holds his breath, praying.

“Sorry, not good enough. Kindly leave, or I’ll have you detained.”

Stiles’ dad moves to close the door, and panic takes over. Derek wedges his foot between the door frame and the door before it’s fully closed, and he pushes it open again, werewolf strength no match for the other man.

“This is breaking and entering!” the sheriff snaps, but Derek’s miles past caring.

“For fuck’s sake. Just move and let me - _MIECZYSLAW_!”

Sheriff Stilinski freezes, staring at Derek like he’s declared himself ruler of the world.

“That’s my late wife’s father’s name,” he whispers. “She always said if we had a boy she’d like to name him that. I prayed we’d get a daughter to spare him the agony.”

“That’s Stiles’ real name,” says Derek softly. “You never had a daughter. Instead, you had Mieczyzlaw. Or Stiles, as he calls himself.”

A loud thump coming from the second floor startles them both.

Derek’s heart speeds up. He shares a look with the sheriff for what feels like an eternity, before Cora bellows “What are you waiting for!” Derek’s waited long enough. Without hesitation he bolts for the stairs.

 

 

  
***

 

Harris is back to singing blues tunes.

This in itself is a tragedy unparalleled by most sounds that ever penetrated Stiles’ eardrums. Factor in that the chemistry teacher’s exclusively belting out mournful and obscure pieces, and it’s safe to say Stiles is suffering. In fact, the shadowy moorland that’s about to engulf them completely, can’t really come quick enough. At least it will end his suffering, Stiles muses gloomily. Unless, the chilly fog serves as an amplifier of sound waves. Stiles quickly pushes that idea out of his mind. Linger too long on that, and the Wild Hunt might get ideas.

He hasn’t seen anyone out in the hallway since his dad demanded Derek and Cora leave. Stiles isn’t sure if his dad’s at work or just staying away. What he does know though, is that the lack of activity is wearing on him. Even if they’ll never find him, Stiles lives for the few glimpses of his dad each day. It fuels him with hope, with love and with the will to hold on, just a bit longer.

Seeing Derek,though, realizing that he still remembers him is a whole other issue. It touched something inside him, something studiously ignored and repressed. Not that it matters. No one seems to believe Derek anyway, and even if they did, what would that accomplish? No one ever returns from the Wild Hunt.

Harris finishes off his current tune, then slowly, syrupy, turns around, pinning Stiles with that haughty bespectacled glare he’d perfected during Chemistry class.

“You know, you could chime in. These songs are meant to be harmonized.”

“I’d rather drink bleach,” Stiles replies flatly, not even giving Harris the time of day.

“Why are you teenagers always so dramatic?” Harris shakes his head, then removes his glasses and cleans them on his wrinkled shirt.

“Why are you teachers always either mind-numbingly boring, or power-hungry dickheads?”

Harris snorts, but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he retreats to his designated quarters by the laundry hamper.

“Dickhead or bore, I’m still curious to know why Derek Hale remembers you.”

Derek Hale. It’s without doubt Harris’ favorite topic as of late. Stiles isn’t really sure what bugs him the most. The fact that he doesn’t know the answer, or Harris' disbelieving tone. Like Stiles is some sort of bed bug the likes of Derek shouldn’t even spare a second glance. He can, objectively, see where he’s coming from, but it still hurts more than he’s willing to admit.

“In your case, I think it’s both,” drawls Stiles, purposefully avoiding the question. “You’re both a bore and a dickhead. Congratulations, it’s quite the feat.”

“You’re even more obnoxious now when I can’t give you detention or expel you.”

“I think you’ll find the only obnoxious person in the chemistry classroom was always you,” Stiles offers sweetly. “And you never had the power to expel, so no need to wax poetic about that.”

Harris replies by pelting him with dirty socks. Stiles quickly lobs them into the chilly fog, shivering slightly when it emits a faint hissing sound and a distinct smell of sulfur.

Harris is quiet after that, and strangely enough the silence that follows is somehow worse than the off-key blues songs. It provides ample opportunity to let his mind spin increasingly bleaker scenarios, none of which offer any answers to their predicament, and certainly not how Derek remembers.

“Perhaps I annoyed him so much I was etched into his mind,” Stiles mumbles almost inaudibly. It’s the only solution that sounds even vaguely reasonable. Sure, they’ve gotten better friends lately, having even half-decent and serious conversations, perfectly threat-free and all, but he can’t quite see how that differs from Scott or his dad. They’ve known him longer, after all.

 _But they didn’t trust you_ , _or believe in you_ , his inner devil whispers. _Not like Derek did._

  
____________________

 

This might possibly be the most bizarre night of Stiles’ life. Which you know, considering werewolves and freaking kanimas are now a daily occurrence in his life, is really saying something.

Okay, so they’ve sort of lost Jackson, which is all kinds of regrettable, considering he’s Jekylled into his scaly and decidedly scary kanima persona at the moment. Not that Stiles can be held accountable for that. Stupid Isaac, using all the ketamine in one go. Also, Deaton should take some of the blame for seriously undersupplying them. Honestly, sending high school kids into a crazy rave armed with one puny syringe! In hindsight it seems downright crazy. Which sums up their entire existence beautifully.

Stiles skids to a halt outside the rave, surveying his handiwork. The line of mountain ash is wobbly, but intact. He’s still unsure how the handful of magic fairy dust had managed to transform into several feet of line, but he’s not about to question a miracle. He has no idea if it’s working or not, though. Scott has run off to god knows where, probably chasing after Allison, the jealous idiot. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t picked up when Stiles tried to call. He’s about to try again when he hears footsteps behind him.

It’s Derek. He looks disheveled and attractively sweaty, and Stiles isn’t at all affected by the sight. No sir, not one bit. They exchange an awkward wordless greeting, mostly consisting of a lot of eyebrows on Derek’s part and a spectacular flail by yours truly.

“Hey,” he says, giving a spastic wave. Sometimes Stiles wonders if all his odd arm movement translates into rude things in sign language. It seems like the kind of thing he’d do. Aaaand his mind has officially spun out of control again. Awesome.

“So, we kind of lost Jackson inside.”

Derek rolls his eyes, like he didn’t expected anything else from them. As always it pushes all of Stiles’ buttons, sending him into instant defend mode.

“But, it’s - “

That’s all be manages to get out before a door opens and Isaac and Erica steps out. They seem relieved to see Derek and hurries towards him. However, as they approach the line of ash, they stop, bewildered.

Stiles lets out a whoop of triumph, fist-pumping childishly.

“Oh, this is -!”

He grins at Derek, stupidly proud. He might be puny and human, but he’s not entirely useless. Warmth spreads inside him, like a furnace that’s suddenly and unexpectedly sparked to life.

Derek for his part looks taken aback. He stares at Stiles for a long time, eyebrows knitted together in a formation Stiles isn’t familiar with. He knows what annoyance, anger, fear and impatience looks like on Derek Hale’s stubbly face. This however is an expression of unknown origin and meaning, not necessarily hostile. That’s - _huge_!

Stiles has no clue how to react to that, so instead he whoops again, twirls and inevitably stumbles into a nearby car. The alarm blears to life.

“Crap,” he swears, “not again.”

Derek stares from the car to Stiles and back again, then simply bangs his fist against the side of the vehicle. The blearing stops as if on cue.

“Impressive.”

Derek shrugs. “So is this,” he says, gesturing towards the mountain ash. “This is your work, is it?”

Stiles nods, head bobbing frantically.

“Yupp, sure is. Deaton gave me a bag of this stuff, said to lay it around the building to trap supernatural beings. Said I had to activate it by believing. Sounded very New Agey to me, but apparently I have hidden depths.”

“Who knew,” drawls Derek, and holy moly! Is that a trace of a smile?

“Not many,” agrees Stiles, shrugging self-deprecatingly.

"Not many, besides me, that is,” says Derek, blowing Stiles’ mind all over the parking lot. He looks like he sort of means it too, which is - unexpected to say the least.

“Excuse me?”

It comes out squeaky and high-pitched, like he’s still a pimpled pre-teen, voice breaking.

Derek simply shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Which - hello! It totally is. Derek Hale frequently wants to rip Stiles’ throat out with his teeth simply for breathing too loudly in his presence. The notion of him expressing any kind of back-handed compliment is about as absurd as mini quiches. If you’re gonna be making quiches, why make them tiny?

“Come on, Stiles.”

Derek’s voice breaks through Stiles’ inner mini-rambling.

“We both know Scott would probably be dead by now if he didn’t have you. You figured out he was a werewolf before he’d even shifted, and never once considered walking away. Despite your layers of sarcasm and long list of annoying traits, I’d want you in my corner any day.

Stiles crosses his arms, smiling smugly. Derek predictably rolls his eyes.

“You like me,” he sing-songs obnoxiously, hoping his antics will camouflage his speeding heartbeat.

“You were growing on me, but I now realize I've mistaken you for fungus. I’ve changed my mind. You’re as shallow as they come. No depth at all, hidden or otherwise.”

“Liar,” crows Stiles.

Derek doesn’t answer. Instead, he stops abruptly, as if listening for something.

“Scott?” he says, voice suddenly serious, a tense edge to it.

“What?”

Stiles is confused. That took an odd turn, and fast.

“Scott’s dying!” Derek states, sounding oddly frantic. Stiles’ rapid heart freezes in horror.

“Okay, what? How do you know that?”

“Oh, my God, Stiles, I just know! Break it!”

He gestures at the line of mountain ash. Stiles flails, then bends down, Derek hovering above him like a persistent shadow. Without conscious thought he simply waves his hands above it, and the line parts smoothly, like Moses parting the sea.

“Ah -,” he begins hesitantly, not sure how to explain that to Derek. He wasn’t around for the magical creation of extra mountain ash either. Anyway, if Derek is right, and Scott is dying, then it really doesn’t matter one way or the other right now if Stiles has missed his Hogwarts’ letter somehow.

Derek’s already moving, and just as he passes by, Stiles feels a hand pressing down firmly on his shoulder, as if reassuring him of a job well done. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Stiles can’t help but revel in the glow that spreads out from the point of impact, sort of like a sound wave sweeping across his body.

Scott definitely got it all wrong. Derek Hale’s a good guy behind the gruff and the gloom, and Stiles swears he’ll do his best to polish it off so the whole world can see it.

How hard can it possibly be?

  
_____________

 

Stiles is, quite literally, pulled out of his memories with a violent lurch. He crashes to the floor, arms spread out in awkward angles, his nose crushed into the dirty linoleum. It’s probably painful, and there’s bound to be bruises, but Stiles can’t feel a thing. Adrenaline is coursing through him, like out of control currents, gaining speed, turning into whirlwinds.

“What are you doing?” asks Harris, peering out from behind the laundry hamper, glasses perched ridiculously on the tip of his nose. He looks like a peeved Giles from Buffy, only without the mild-mannered disposition and not even an iota of the know-how.

Stiles doesn’t bother answering. He’s too busy scrambling up on all fours and crawling towards the buzzing barrier. It might be his eyes playing tricks on him, he did hit his head when he fell, but it looks different. Thinner somehow, if that’s even possible.

“You’ve lost what little sanity you had, haven’t you?”

“This is just like before,” mutters Stiles, craning his neck, trying to see if anyone’s coming up the stairs. “The last time I felt a pull like that, Derek remembered me.”

As if on cue, Stiles feels another pull, and he barely manages to avoid face-planting into the barrier. It wasn’t as strong as the last one, but still enough to make him lose balance.

“Is anyone coming?”

Stiles startles. He hadn’t heard Harris moving closer, too intent on staring at the still vacant hallway.

“I dunno. I can’t see anyone.”

Harris grunts. “Of course not. Way to get my hopes up, you little - .”

The words die on his lips just as what sounds like a stampede of frantic gnus rush the staircase. Stiles lets out a pathetic whine when he sees Derek taking the stairs two steps at the time, not even bothering with silly werewolf loops this time. Long, muscled legs propel him forward, until he’s standing right in front of Stiles, staring at him as if he can actually see him. His hand comes up, and with a reverence Stiles has never seen before, Derek places his palm gently on the wall. Fighting tears, Stiles reaches out, placing his own against his, ignoring the barrier. It sends painful shocks of electricity through him, but he doesn’t let go.

“What are you doing?” shrieks Harris. Sparks of blue starts sprouting from the area around Stiles’ palm, and a dark blue, almost blackish goo starts pooling out from behind his hand, almost like thick tainted blood.

In his peripheral vision Stiles notices movement in the direction of the staircase, and soon his dad and Cora come into view, stopping abruptly behind Derek. Cora looks mesmerized and proud, his dad caught between anger and incredulity. Their mouths are moving, but Stiles can’t hear a word. The pounding of his blood pumping through him is deafening, the pull of Derek’s gaze so magnetic, he can’t really concentrate on anything else.

Derek takes a deep breath, shrugging off the sheriff’s hand. Stiles watches mesmerized, as if in slow motion, Derek parting his lips, forming a word. A name. A name Stiles hates, feels disconnected and distant from, yet it’s still undeniably his.

“ _Mieczyzlaw_.”

For a few torturous seconds nothing happens. Stiles holds his breath, heart threatening to burrow through his ribcage and escape. Then, a warmth blossoms from the point where Stiles palm is still paused parallel to Derek’s. The barrier pulsates, flickers, like electric pulses, erratic and surging. Then, in a blink of a moment, the barrier crumbles and falls, like a mosaic collage shattered.

Stiles’ dad gasps, clutches his chest before falling to his knees. He grabs his head, face twisted in a series of overwhelmed expressions, from joy to agony. When his eyes lifts and lock with Stiles’, tears are streaming down his cheeks.

“I - I remember now,” he wheezes, voice wobbly. Stiles crumbles to the floor, violent hiccups already convulsing through his body. A split second later he’s engulfed in the safe haven of his father’s arms, a place he never thought he’d feel again.

“I’m sorry son,” the sheriff chants over and over, as the rock back and forth locked in a steely embrace. “Derek told me, but I didn’t believe him. I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m so sorry, son.”

Stiles is too relieved, too exhausted, too raw to say anything. They simply cling to each other.  After a while, it could be minutes or hours; Stiles is too disoriented to know for sure, a shadow suddenly rushes over to them. Before he can even form a coherent thought, Stiles is grabbed by the shoulder and forced into another embrace.

“Dude, you’re back!” Scott’s voice is raspy and raw. “I had just started my shift at Deaton’s, cleaning out some disgusting cat cages, and then all of a sudden - boom! It was like being struck by lightning, only it was memories. Waves and waves of memories. Fuck, Stiles. We’ve done some seriously stupid shit over the years.”

Stiles laughs hysterically, clinging to Scott.

“I rushed right over. What happened?”

Scott release the death grip, and puts enough distance between them for Stiles to see how utterly wrecked his friend looks. His dad is still hugging him dearly, seemingly beyond words.

“The Wild Hunt took me,” Stiles begins, but Scott shakes his head.  
“No, not that part. Derek already told me that. Not that I believed him at the time, but still. I meant, how did you come back? I thought that was like, impossible.”

“I dunno, exactly,” Stiles admits, craning his neck, looking for Derek. His eyes lands on Cora, who’s also looking a bit dazed, clearly having regained a series of memories s well by the look of things.

“Hey,” he smiles softly. Cora mouths it back, smiling crookedly.

“Where’s Derek?” he asks her, and she jerks her head to the left.

“He’s right - Where did he go?”

Stiles scrambles awkwardly to his feet, supported by his dad and Scott. He steps into the hallway, across the scorched barrier where a wall used to be. Derek is nowhere in sight.

“He left.”

In all the tumult, Stiles had forgotten all about Harris. Now they all turn to stare at the teacher in bewilderment. Harris looks somewhat uncomfortable with the attention and gestures towards the stairs.

“Derek left. A minute ago,” he ads when no one seems to grasp what he’s saying.

“Always a runner,” Cora mutters, sounding oddly disappointed.

Stiles is about to ask what she’s on about, when a second wave of people storm the stairs. Surrounded by Malia, Liam and Lydia, he’s forced to forget about Derek’s disappearing act for the time being, but feels his absent acutely, like a missing limb.

 

 

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

“Honestly, dad. I appreciate that you’re happy to have me all reversed memory-zapped back into your life, but this bodyguard thing you’ve got going on simply has to stop.”

Stiles is walking backwards towards his door, pinning his dad with his steeliest of glares. It’s having zero effect. Simply bounces off him, as if the sheriff of Beacon Hills County is made of Teflon, or he’s got his own protective force field, sort of like the Death Star. It’s a frightening concept.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” his dad lies poorly. It’s a good thing he’s on the right side of the law, and his job doesn’t require undercover work of any kind. Stiles shudders to think of the consequences if his dad had to lie for a living. He’d probably be an orphan.

“No?” Stiles arches an eyebrow, opening his door just wide enough for him to slither inside like an awkward lizard. “So, the fact that you haven’t let me out of sight while in the house, and you have at least one werewolf trailing me whenever I leave, is pure coincidence, is it? Is that what you’re implying?”

“Precisely,” his dad nods. “Nothing but happenstance and chance events.”

“Sorry. Not buying it.”

Stiles steps further inside his room, already in the process of closing the door. “You’re the one who taught me all about incidents, coincident and patterns, so don’t even try it. And this door stays closed, with you on the other side of it, and if I find even one nanny cam in here, I’m fleeing to Bermuda. Good luck finding me there!”

The sheriff protests halfheartedly, but soon shuffles off to bed with a loud yawn. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief, resting his forehead heavily against the door. The last day and a half has been a roller-coaster of emotions, most prominently related to rehashing the events leading up to his capture, and what happened beyond the veil. The entire time his dad has hovered by his side like a paranoid, yet loving shadow, Scott not far behind.

Even Lydia insisted on sleeping over the first night back, claiming she wasn’t ready to go home and risk discovering in the morning it was all a dream. Stiles suspects she stayed awake most of the night, watching him sleep. He was too exhausted to be bothered by it, and fell into a dreamless slumber the moment his head hit the pillow. In the morning, Lydia serveed up a generous batch of to-die-for pancakes, which more than made up for any creepy vigil she may or may not have conducted while he was out.

After breakfast, Stiles had found Malia asleep in the flowerbed he and his dad weeded just moments before he was taken. Liam, who doesn’t seem to have a stealthy bone in his body, kept hovering by the mailbox most of the morning like a pathetic stalker, and Stiles quite literally bumped into Corey on his doorstep, where he was attempting to blend into the railings with his chameleon powers.

Stiles had shooed them all away with threats of mountain ash and restraining orders, before retreating inside intending to eat his weight in popcorn while vegetating on the couch, catching up on trash TV. This plan was instantly thwarted when he found Melissa already in the process of preparing enough food to feed a mid-sized village.

It all culminated in a barbecue with all his friends. They ended up staying well past midnight, taking turns to crowd in on Stiles, making sure he’s never unattended. It’s not until an embarrassed deputy showed up on their doorstop with a noise complaint filed by old Mrs. Gibson next door, that the shindig came to an end. The Sheriff rolled his eyes, sent everyone home and stalked over with leftovers to hopefully appease the grumpy hag.  
  
Secretly, Stiles was relieved. He hasn’t had a moment to himself since the barrier fell, and his mind is a jumbled mess of emotions he dearly needs to sort out. While it stings to know that no one missed him or remembered him while he was taken, it’s still touching to see how happy they all are he’s back. Stiles truly appreciates all the attention, and yet something doesn’t feel right. Something is missing. Unresolved. He has a pretty good idea what it is, but not what to do about it.

Stiles sighs deeply again, then pushes away from the door, turning around only to let out a muffled shriek.

He’s not alone.

Of course he isn’t.

“Cora! Fucking hell, you scared the shit out of me!”

Cora Hale is sitting primly on his bed, much in the same spot she sat a year ago when Stiles had tried and failed to tell his dad about the supernatural elements in this town. She’d ended up passed out and rushed to the hospital, poisoned by mistletoe. Not exactly a happy memory, but Stiles has to admit that it’s good to see her again. Cora seems lighter somehow. Less tense. Her eyes are sad, though. Or perhaps worried is a better description. Stiles’ gut churns in foreboding spasms.

“Sorry,” she says, smiling crookedly, not sounding sorry at all.

“Yeah, right. Sure you are,” scoffs Stiles, flailing for good measure. “We do have a functioning doorbell. Just FYI. What’s with you Hales and sneaking into my bedroom, anyway?”

That comment puts a wide smirk on Cora’s face, and what feels like a deep burgundy flush on Stiles’.

“I don’t know, Stiles. Why don’t you tell me more about these Hale window visits? Sounds - _naughty_.”

She’s waggling her eyebrows. Stiles flips her off, dumping down in his swivel chair with a muffled grunt. God, he’s tired.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your late night visit?” he asks, doing a unconcealed attempt to change the subject.

Cora’s face morphs from amused to concerned in a manner of seconds.

“Derek,” she says simply, and a chill runs down Stiles’ back. For all the visitors he’d had lately, Derek is the one he actually wanted to see. But he’s been conspicuously absent, and hasn’t answered neither Stiles’ calls or texts.

“I can’t find him,” she adds.

“What?”

“I can’t find him,” she repeats slowly, like Stiles is a particularly dim-witted child.

“I heard you, smartypants, I just don’t understand. You’re a werewolf.” Stiles gestures helplessly. “Can’t you just scent him or whatever?”

Cora rolls her eyes. Stiles idly wonders if they’re given lessons or if it’s just a born trait. All Hales have mastered that down to a t. Even Peter, the creepy bastard. _Especially_ Peter, come to think of it.

“It’s possible to mask your scent, genius. Sadly, Derek’s pretty good at that. It’s like he was never even here.”

“Perhaps he left town.” Stiles toys with his phone, mostly to keep his hands from flailing to the rhythm of his jerky heartbeats. “Went back to Chile, or whatnot.”

Cora snorts, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t dare. Not without me. I’m the only real link he has to that place. Besides, he’s too chicken-shit to face the Twisted Sisters again.”

Stiles hums non-commenting.

“He told you about them, did he?”

Stiles is surprised to note that Cora doesn’t sound teasing, just curious.

“He mentioned them a few times, yeah. I think they scared him. Odd, considering.”

Cora laughs, head thrown back like a little kid. It’s the most relaxed Stiles has ever seen her, and it’s like he’s getting to know here all over, and he genuinely likes it. Not that he didn’t get along with her before, because for all her posturing and snark, she was surprisingly easy to talk to, even if she did have a major chip on her shoulder at the time. Now it feels more natural, somehow.

“Oh, he was petrified.”

She mimics Derek’s broody grunts complete with a look of deer-in-headlights. It’s hilarious.

“The first night he was there, they ambushed him after dinner. I swear they were about to feel him up right there in the living room while cake was being served. You called and saved him.”

Stiles inclines his head in a little bow, smiling crookedly.

“It’s what I do. Saves one grumpy, socially retarded werewolf at a time.”

Cora smiles, head tilted. “I know you’re joking now, but you’re kind of right. I think you’re good for him, Stiles.”

What the - ?

Stiles simply stares, at a complete loss for words. That -? He never expected anything of the sort to come out of Cora Hale’s mouth. No one’s mouth for that matter. Stiles Stilinski is usually a source of chaos and stress to the people in his life. Being “good for them”? Not something he’s often accused of.

“Oh, God. You’re just as clueless, aren’t you?”

Cora shakes her head, rolling those eyes again like the pro she is.

“I don’t follow?”

“I see that,” she replies, smiling sadly. “Don’t worry about it, though. We can get back to that later. Right now I was actually hoping you’d help me find my idiotic brother.”

Stiles shrugs.

“Sure, yeah. I’ll do my best. Where have you looked so far?”

“The loft, the preserve, where our house used to be, the old train depot and just about any abandoned building in this town. There are a lot of those,” she adds pointedly.

“Don’t I know it,” Stiles mumbles, mentally running through what Cora just listed and trying to think of any other places Derek might slink off to. It’s not easy to concentrate, though. Not with a myriad of questions battling for dominance, clouding his concentration.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, spinning around in his chair so abruptly Cora actually startles. “I will help, I promise. It’s just - I have to ask, just in case you know.”

Stiles takes a deep breath.

“How come Derek remembered me? No one else did. Not even my dad.”

Cora shrugs, looking honestly perplexed.

“I don’t know. I don’t think Derek knew either. He just came back after being gone for a few days, and got all agitated when he couldn’t get a hold of you. He then asked me about you, and I -.” She shakes her head softly, eyes diverted. “I had no clue what he was talking about.”

“Oh.”

Well, that was sort of anti-climatic. Stiles slumps back in his chair, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“Where did he go?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said Derek had been gone a few days. Where did he go? Why did he leave?”

Cora’s brows furrows.

“At the time, I didn’t think much about it. Looking back I think we all assumed he’d been on a hike for a few days. But now that my memories of you are back, I remember things differently.”

“How so?”

A tingly sensation is taking root in the pit of Stiles’ stomach. Like they are onto something. Something important.

“I guess, when the Hunt took you, they also took all our memories of you, both direct and indirect. When the barrier was broken and you returned, all of those memories came flooding back. For me, what stood out was all the interactions I’ve had with you directly. It was like a rush of images, and the ones I’ve experienced personally were the strongest. It was all very overwhelming, and afterward I haven’t really thought too closely about all the other bits of pieces that were restored.”

“That makes sense,” Stiles agrees. “So, what you’re saying is that your memory of Derek’s reason for leaving is different now that I’m back.”

Cora nods, eyes alight. “Yes.”

She closes her eyes for a few seconds, almost as if she’s visualizing things. Stiles is itching to ask more questions, to get all the details, but restrains himself. When she opens here eyes again, she looks embarrassed and a little flushed.

“So?” Stiles is on the edge of his seat, so hungry for answers it’s a miracle he’s not flailing around like a spastic octopus. “Why did he leave?”

Cora actually squirms. Stiles’ eyes go wide.

“Did something happen? Something bad?”

“NO!” Cora shakes her head frantically. “Nothing like that. It was just -.”

She pauses gain, and Stiles can’t take it anymore. He jumps up and starts pacing the room, running a hand nervously through his hair.

“Just what?”

“We were teasing him, alright!”

Cora’s cheeks are tinged with red. “We all kind of ganged up on him, teasing him about stuff and he got, I dunno - embarrassed, or sick of it all, maybe.”

Stiles is now honestly confused. That was not a direction he was expecting.

“Teasing him? About what?”

“It’s not really important,” Cora starts, waving her hands around. Stiles scoffs.

“If it made him run off for days, then I bet it was important. What?” he asks impatiently, watching Cora jump to her feet, eyes bright with realization.

“Oh my, God! Stiles - _he changed_!”

“Not really,” Stiles snorts. “He’s still moody and runs off for now good reason.”

Cora laughs almost hysterically, swatting Stiles’ shoulder manically.

“Not that kind of change, doofus. He literally changed. Into his wolf form, and then ran off. I’m betting good money he stayed like that for days until he returned. What if - “

“- the Wild Hunt’s magic doesn’t affect animals the same,” Stiles finishes, more or less joining Cora in her little victory dance. “That kind of makes sense.”

“Yeah, it does,” Cora concurs. “Wow, then I guess it really was a good thing then, us teasing him. It literally saved your life. I guess that makes us even, then.”

She smiles almost shyly. Stiles feels a little lost. Like he’s missed part of an explanation and can’t make sense of her conclusion.

“I’m not following.”

“The ambulance, silly. I know you saved my life. Thank you, by the way.”

Stiles feels his ears heat up, and doesn’t quite know how to respond. It ends up as a jerky little wave, but Cora seems satisfied none the less.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, both seemingly lost in thought. Stiles feels flustered and jittery. He hadn’t expected Cora to remember anything from the ambulance, and people thanking him for anything isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence. Also, he’s not sure what to think of Derek’s disappearing act. In fact, it makes no sense whatsoever.

“I don’t get it,” he finally blurts. “I don’t get why he’s run off now. I mean, he did a good thing. I would be stuck in a shadowy moorland for all eternity, only accompanied by Adrian Harris and his bottomless repertoire of soul-killing blues. Why hide? I bet my dad is willing to make him an honorary deputy and erect a statue in his liking on the town square.”

Cora simply smiles, her expression stuck between amused and sad.

“It’s what he does,” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s his modus operandi.”

Stiles shakes his head disbelievingly.

“I beg to differ. I’ve never seen him slink away from anything. In fact, he usually seems to barge in, claws at the ready and no plan. This seems very un-Derek like to me.”

Cora smiles sadly, tucking a lose strand of hair behind her ear.

“What you need to know is, Derek’s reaction all depends on what kind of threat he’s facing. Kanimas, hunters, rogue omegas. Derek will be on the front-line without worry about the risk. It’s a whole other matter when he’s feeling emotionally threatened.”

Cora tucks her feet up on the bed, leaning further back against Stiles’ pillows, regarding him with soft eyes.

“Do you remember after Boyd?” she asks, voice low.

Stiles nods slowly. That was a cluster-fuck all around, and thinking about Boyd still stings. He considered him a friend, even if Boyd didn’t return the sentiment.

“Do you remember barging into the loft, looking for Derek?”

Stiles nods again, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“Of course I do. Shit was going down, and Derek just vanished in the night - oh.” He stops mid-sentence, eyes wide.

“I won’t claim to know exactly what goes on in Derek’s head most of the time,” says Cora. “He’s a complicated guy. Also, private as fuck. I have however noticed that he tends to pull away when he’s emotionally hurt or vulnerable. Do you recall Peter telling us the story about Paige?”  
  
Stiles nods again. “I’m still not convinced dear Uncle Peter was entirely truthful in his version of events.”

“Probably not. I guess that means you never got around to asking Derek about it? You said you would.”

Stiles shakes his head minutely. He never found a right time or place for that conversation. After a while it just seemed strange to bring it up. Pointless, somehow, and possibly just painful for Derek. It seemed cruel to poke into Derek’s traumatic past just to satisfy his own morbid curiosity on the matter.

“I never told you this, it didn’t seem relevant at the time, but Derek ran off for a few days after her death.”

Cora is playing with the fringes on Stiles’ bedspread, braiding them carefully.

“I was too young to understand what had happened. All they told me was that Derek’s girlfriend had died. I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend, so it wasn’t anything I could fully wrap my head around. I do remember him going missing, though.”

“Just like with Boyd?”

Cora nods. “Yeah. I remember mom getting really worried after a day or so. The school called wondering if he was sick. Mom and dad went out looking for him, so did Peter. Laura and I were ordered to stay home in case he showed up again. I have no clue where he was, but they dragged him home a few days later. Mom was livid, yelled at him for hours. After that they never spoke of it again, and Derek acted as if everything was okay. It was weird,” she adds in an afterthought. As if she hadn’t really thought about it before. Not in this light.

“But I’m not dead.”

Stiles is at that incredibly frustrating place where you sort of get it, but you don’t. Boyd died. Paige died. Derek ran off after. That makes sense. Still, that doesn’t really explain why he’s gone off again now. It doesn’t fit the pattern.

“No,” agrees Cora. “You didn’t die. But you came pretty close. In a way, you kind of did, though. The world forgot you, Stiles. You were “dead” to everyone - only Derek remembered, and he was alone in that and felt powerless to help you. In a way, he probably feels it was his fault somehow. I know,” she ads dejectedly when Stiles opens his mouth to protest. “It’s ridiculous, but that’s the way he is. You should know. You’re exactly the same.”

Stiles huffs indignantly, ready to launch into a spiel of how Cora’s dead wrong, but she’s way ahead of him.

“Don’t bother protesting. Like Derek you run headfirst into danger, but bottle everything up when it comes to your emotional scars. It’s no wonder you seem to gravitate to each other like you do.”

“I’m fine,” says Stiles automatically. Cora slow claps.

“Wow, awesome. You just proved my point. You’re not fine. You’ve just been abducted by the Wild Hunt, erased and forgotten and trapped in a veiled horror world with your least favorite person as your sole companion. No one would be “fine” after that.”

“What’s your point?” he asks sullenly, not even bothering to correct her. Not when she’s right. He’s not fine. Not even close.

“You run, too.”

Cora’s statement is matter-of-fact.

“Only difference is you hide behind sarcasm and bluster. Derek hides behind anger, and when it gets really bad, he bolts. Literally skips off, leaving the root of his issues behind, unsolved. He ran off to New York after the fire. He hid for days after Boyd died. He later left town with me for months. Then he took off on a pointless road-trip with Braeden, but abandoned her as soon as she began to see through his cracks. Then he hid away in Chile for months. Now, he’s holed off, god knows where.”

Stiles rubs his temples, leaning dangerously far back in the rickety swivel chair. Cora’s increasingly long list of Derek’s emotional hideouts is making less and less sense to him.

“Hold on, backtrack.” He slides off the chair, and begins to pace the room again. “I don’t see how running off now fits the pattern.”

Cora simply stares at him, expression unreadable. Like she’s giving him time to catch up. To connect the dots. When all Stiles manages is to give himself a mild migraine, she purses her lips slightly.

“Okay, so let’s recap,” she says, surprisingly patient for her.

“He loved a girl, she died. Indirectly, Derek feels it’s his fault for being a werewolf and bringing her into danger. Most of our family died in a fire, and I just know he feels guilty about that too, although I fail to see why. Then he lost the only person he was truly close to, his sister, Laura. He tried to rebuild a pack, and he lost them all. He more or less forced me to leave town and stay away from him after that. Basically, he doesn’t trust his heart, Stiles. Derek’s got this crazy notion that if he loves someone, they’ll die, and in the process he’ll be even more hurt. It’s a tragic pattern in his life, and it causes him to distance himself from the people he cares about, either by pushing them away, moving them away in my case, or running off to hide.”

It’s one of those rare moments. The ones you read about in novels, you see depicted in movies and TV dramas. When a character has an epiphany so grand the world pauses, and everything comes into focus, a veil is ripped aside, colors intensify and your heart feels like it’s about to explode. Cora’s words are like snowflakes. Each word fusing together with the prior to form a snowball. A snowball that rolls down a hillside, first slowly, then picks up speed, gathering momentum until that point where it hits the right spot, setting off an avalanche of feelings that hits so hard it leaves you breathless.

“He - ?”

The word drowns in the rushing bloodstream cascading through Stiles’ body. Cora gets it, though. It’s written all over her face. Relief, amusement, and something new and surprising: fondness.

“Yes,” she says firmly, holding his gaze. “Derek loves you. Ridiculously, wholeheartedly and if I’m not entirely mistaken, he’s probably in denial about it. That’s what we were teasing him about, you know. When he ran off. You.”

Stiles is reduced to nothing but jerky flails and unintelligible choking noises.

“You see now? Why I need you to find him?” Cora scrambles to her feet, smoothing down invisible wrinkles on her t-shirt. “You need to tell grumpy-paws his reasoning is stupid, and just - I dunno. Kiss him silly or whatnot.”

Stiles produces a choked cry, cheeks blushing deep scarlet. Cora smirks.

“Don’t even try to deny you don’t feel the same. I picked up on your chemo signals pretty fast the last time I was in town. You’re attracted to him, I know that.”

“I was attracted to you, too,” mumbles Stiles defensively. Cora laughs.

“I know. I was flattered. I thought you were hot. Still, not the Hale you favored. Don’t even bother denying it.”

“I won’t,” admits Stiles. Resistance is futile anyway. And if Cora’s right - well, it opens up some really interesting scenarios.

 

  
*

 

  
Cora leaves the way she came, out the window. Her exit is just as flashy as the toothy grin she throws him upon departure, knowing perfectly well that she’s stirred up emotions and revelations that will keep him up for the rest of the night.

Stiles silently curses as she completes a triple tuck somersault, sticking the landing expertly. She disappears between the overgrown bushes before he can think of a snide comment to send her off. He settles for a heartfelt scoff and the cemented knowledge that werewolves are annoying showoffs, the lot of them.

Naturally, going to bed is out of the question. Instead, Stiles clears a path in the debris cluttering his room, and paces relentlessly for hours. His mind is a jumbled mess, and it feels like the various parts of his personality is having a very heated debate on how to interpret Cora’s less than subtle hints. His mushy, romantic side wants to run off into the night, searching for Derek so they can have a cliched-yet-sweet moment, preferably in the rain, because everyone knows everything is better wet. Another part of him wants to do what he does best - ignore it all until it eventually goes away. The exact same tendency Derek has shown, time and again,that he’s very good at. Going away, that is.

Cora called Derek a runner. Said it was his default defense mechanism. How he removes himself from situations where the possibility of being hurt is high. Stiles always assumed Derek left town to get away from the epic shitstorms that periodically went down. If Cora’s somewhat outrageous theories are true, it’s more to do with threats to Derek’s emotional side, rather than his physical. Unfathomably, Stiles is now a sword with potential to wound deep and hard, if Cora’s to be believed.

It’s a preposterous analogy. Stiles throws himself on the bed with a groan that is echoed by the bedsprings. He’s clearly sleep deprived. If his mind was well-rested and sharp, these kinds of notions would be swiftly shut down and debunked.

Right?

It gnaws at him. This persistent little niggling voice, pointing out little incidents, forgotten conversations, lingering looks, potential connections. There’s a trail of evidence to support Cora’s suggestion, depending on how you look a things. Still, it seems too unlikely, too unrealistic that Derek Hale, potential male model and broody alpha male (pun totally intended), actually has that kind of feelings for awkward and geeky Stiles Stilinski. It would be totally awesome if it is true, because Stiles has nothing but _that_ kind of feelings for Derek, and has sort of always felt like that, even if he’s done his best to ignore it.

Acting on it, though? That will take a kind of bravery he’s not sure he possesses. It’s probably not true anyway. How could it be?

Stiles sighs long-suffering, throwing the stress ball he’s been picking away at for the better part of the night angrily at the door.

“Ouch!”

Stiles startles violently, almost toppling off the bed. His dad’s standing in the doorway, rubbing his nose, staring bemusedly between Stiles and the ball that hit him on the face.

“Sorry,” he says with a wince. The sheriff simply shrugs in that universal put-out way, reserved for parents worldwide.

“At least your aim is improving,” he comments dryly, stepping further into the room, taking care to look where he steps. The entire room is still in disarray after weeks beyond the Hunt’s veil, partially engulfed in shadows. Needless to say, neither Stiles nor Harris had taken great care to keep their respective domains tidy or neat.

“Not really, I was aiming for the trash can,” admits Stiles with a yawn. His dad shakes his head, mouth curved in a fond half-smile.

“In that case, we need to hit up the shooting range, and that soon. I doubt they’d let you into FBI pre-courses if that’s your best shot.”

Stiles hums unintelligible. His dad’s right. Only, Stiles can’t possibly find the needed concentration for that kind of task. Not now, when he’s in emotional turmoil and severely sleep-deprived.

“Did you sleep at all?”

Stiles arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you read minds,” he mumbles. “That’s an unnerving new quality.”

The Sheriff heads for the swivel chair and proceeds to use it as a means to clear a path closer to Stiles’ bed.

“If I did, I’m sure I’d be mentally scared for life,” he drawls in that voice he uses when he thinks he’s being funny. Stiles glares, unimpressed. The effect is somewhat destroyed by another jaw-splitting yawn.

“And there’s my answer,” mutters the Sheriff. “Honestly, son. If you’re having trouble sleeping, which is perfectly understandable by the way, please tell me. I’m sure Melissa can help with that.”

“Thanks, dad. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stiles pauses for a moment, struggling with the decision of whether he should confide in his dad or not.

“Are you having nightmares? You sometimes talk in your sleep, and I thought I heard voices last night.”

Stiles shakes his head minutely, biting his lip nervously.

“No, I didn’t sleep at all, actually. Cora came by.”

His dad’s eyes widen, before doing a not particularly subtle sweep of his bed. Stiles snorts.

“Not that kind of visit. Get your head out of the gutter.”

“Just checking,” his dad says with a defensive wave of his hands. “It’s not that long ago Malia kept creeping through your window at all times of the night. Don’t think for a moment I didn’t notice - or hear,” he adds cheekily. Stiles reddens.

“Don’t worry,” he mutters. “Don’t expect any booty calls coming my way any time soon.”

“No?” his dad seems surprised. “Derek’s run off again, has he?”

For a moment everything short-circuits. His breathing, his brain, his voice. Stiles simply stares, possibly slack-jawed and incredulous at his dad, who in turn looks uncharacteristically unruffled and put-together. Like he’s neither joking or particularly disturbed by the notion of Derek and Stiles - you know. _Like that._

“How did you - I mean, what?” Stiles splutters. “What do you mean by that?”

His dad simply sits there for a moment, ponderously, before he finally answers.

“I didn’t sleep much either last night,” he begins. “I had a lot of time to think about stuff, and I think it’s high time we started communicating like adults. Not beating around bushes or omitting truths. And it goes both ways. So, I’ll be blunt, okay?”

Stiles simply flails, voice still not cooperating.

“I remember what happened before you returned. Derek came by, more than once, freaked out and worried about you. At the time I didn’t remember you or believe him. But what I did realize, without a shadow of a doubt, was that Derek cared deeply, desperately for you. Otherwise, why would he go to such lengths to find you?”

“I dunno.” Stiles shrugs, self-deprecating. “Maybe he felt like he owed me, or something? I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve saved his ass and vice versa.”

His dad shakes his head, smile weirdly fond.

“No, that was not the actions of man out to repay a debt. That was a man with deep emotional ties to you. When my memories returned, I realized I’ve seen this behavior in him before. Back when you were struggling with the possession and went missing for days. Derek was relentless, searching high and low, not sleeping or eating. He hid it better back then, and because I was so distraught myself, I didn’t notice. In hindsight, it’s pretty obvious, though. He cares about you. A lot.”

He pauses, leaning forward to catch Stiles’ eye.

“Loves you even.”

Stiles’ cheeks heats, and he flails a bit, almost knocking over the lamp on his bedside table. His dad catches it, effortlessly.

“You’re delusional,” Stiles mutters.

“No, son. I’m not. I’m a damn good cop who knows how to string together clues. I have enough evidence to convict. Besides,” he adds, voice taking on an entirely too mirthful tone to be anything but bad news, “you’ve had a crush on him since he rolled back into town, so I’m pretty sure it’s entirely mutual.”

“What? No! That’s absurd!”

Stiles wants to die! Or perhaps just slip into a convenient coma. A perfectly timed portal would also be most welcome.

The Sheriff actually rolls his eyes.

“Please, son. Spare me the fake protests. I found you sneaking into my cruiser to talk to him after you got him arrested, looking equally as bright-eyed and starstruck as the day you first came home praising the wonders of Lydia Martin. Funnily enough that was also about the time you stopped singing her praises, so I kind of knew you’d moved on to someone else. It wasn’t exactly difficult to piece together the rest.”

He pats Stiles comfortingly on the shoulder as he gets up from the chair.

“I’m just thankful it wasn’t that Jackson kid. I never liked him - or his dad, for that matter.”

“That’s just gross,” Stiles wails, because ugh. Cooties!

“I’m heading downstairs to make some breakfast. I was thinking pancakes.”

Stiles is still kind of reeling from it all, but he manages to shake his head slightly.

“No, thanks. I’ll pass. I have to - I need to…”

He pauses, draws a deep breath, and finally looks up, face set in determination.

“I need to find Derek.”

The sheriff smiles, looking almost proud.

“I thought as much. Oh, and by the way. In the spirit of total transparency. I took the liberty to call up Scott’s dad asking him to put in a good word for you for that pre-FBI program you applied to. I just heard back from him, and you’re in.”

“Seriously? Agent McDouche?”

“I think perhaps it’s time you stop with the nasty nicknames, son. He’s not as big of an asshole as you’re led to believe. I’ll tell you more about it later, alright? Quantico, though. That’s not bad, kiddo. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

It’s amazing news, and yet it’s quickly pushed to the background. His top priority is finding Derek before he weasels out of town again. Luckily, Stiles has a pretty good idea where he might be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two more chapters to go! The next installment should be up within a couple of days. Thank you for your patience ♥


	19. Chapter 19

It’s almost noon and Derek’s still here. Still in Beacon Hills despite all plans to leave this place, once and for all. He’s not really sure why. He’s determined to go. It’s been his plan all along. To put this freaky town in the rear view mirror as soon as Stiles was back safely. To put as much distance between the two of them as possible, so that they’d both be safe. So Stiles wouldn’t end up dead, and Derek’s heart wouldn’t have to break. Again.

_Everyone I care about dies or suffers._

This notion has been playing around in Derek’s mind like a mantra for half his life. It’s the only universal truth he knows and trusts, and the few times he’s questioned it, defied it even, the world quickly turned around and showed him, ruthlessly and cruelly, that it’s something he can’t escape.

Paige, his family, Laura, Boyd, Erica, and most recently, Stiles. If he’s in their lives, death is sure to follow, leaving him guilt-ridden and broken in its wake. Miraculously, there’s still time left to save Stiles, but that all hinges on one thing: Derek leaving and never returning.

Yet, here he still is. Well within county limits and without any clear plan for egress or where he’s going. It’s unlikely anyone will find him - that _he’ll_ find him, but still. Staying here is a risk.

_You’re an idiot, Derek Hale._

Derek can practically hear Laura’s exasperated voice echoing inside his head from where it’s wormed its way past his meticulously constructed defenses and into his subconscious. She’d be so disappointed in him if she could see him now. No, scratch that. She’d be exasperated and livid. Sure, Laura had been more subdued after the fire. Still, she had always defied all risks. Always run headfirst into danger, into love, into adventure. And she’d always seemed happier for it. Sure, she’d had her heart broken by silly boys, she’d skinned her knees and broken more bones than anyone he knows. But she was always so - _alive_.

Until she wasn’t.

“Why won’t you leave me alone,” Derek mutters in a failed attempt to chase off the ghost of his long-dead sister. It’s of no use. Like always, she’s just out of reach, a split second faster, the phantom of her laughter carrying on the wind.

Deep down Derek knows she won’t leave. Not ever. Laura was always persistent. And to be honest, he’s not really sure he even wants her gone. Not really. Now then, not now. Not ever.

  
________________

 

“Derek-poo, come on! Don’t be such a Debbie Downer! Or should I say _Derek Downer_?”

Laura is jumping up and down on his bed like she’s still eight years old, and not a Senior in high school. Derek does his best to ignore her, but the constant nagging, the squeaking bedsprings and the way she keeps flicking his ear is hard to block out, even for him.

“Would you quit it? I’m trying to concentrate. And FYI, your jokes are terrible.”

“Nope. No way I’m quitting, loser. I’m determined to force you to live a little, even if it means I have to spend the better part of my afternoon bugging you. I know you want to,” Laura sing-songs. “Deep down you’re just like the rest of us. A teenager dying to have some fun! F - U - N.”

Each letter is followed by a whack of a pillow against the back of his head. Derek’s counting slowly to one billion to calm his fraying nerves.

“You’re partially right,” he replies snidely, turning a page daintily. “I am in fact ‘ _dying_ ’, but only to get you out of my room. I have a History paper to finish, and unlike some, I actually care about my grades.”

“Pish-posh, I care. My grades are more than fine, and yet I still manage to schedule in a hearty dose of fun. Leisure. Relaxation. Downtime. Social interactions. All foreign concepts to you, I know, but I’m an excellent coach. I’d be your Yoda. Your Yoda I would be, young Padawan. Would it help if I penciled it into your timetable? Added it to your busy calendar? We could call it extra credit if that helps ease your scholary nerves.”

Laura does a split jump, knocking over one of his basketball trophies in the process.“Oopsie,” she giggles, watching it clatter to the floor.

Yeah, there’s no way that was an accident. Derek sighs dramatically, picking it up and placing it safely out of Laura’s perimeter. He hopes. Laura’s limber.

“Nice try. Points for the Star Wars reference, but no.”

Laura pokes her tongue out. It’s electric blue, meaning she’s been sucking on some sort of lollipop again, even though their parents don’t allow sweets on the weekdays.

“Please exit my room, or I’ll tell mom you’re sucking on lollies on a school day.”

Laura snorts, but continues the incessant bouncing.

“So, you’re resorting to low-level snitching, is that it? How very third grade of you. You’re only adding to your stuck up and boring persona in that case. Besides, you have no proof.”

Derek turns around, arms crossed, surveying Laura’s gymnastic routine with a resigned air.

“Unless you plan on cutting out your own tongue, then yes I do. I wouldn’t mind if you did, by the way. In fact, I’ll gladly assist.” He pretends to examine the sharpness of his claws. “Without a tongue, you’ll have a harder time bugging the shit out of me. I see no downside to this.”

Laura sends out a trilling laugh, sounding neither perturbed nor threatened. “Touche,” she concedes, sounding oddly proud. Derek shakes his head. Laura’s weird. Also, she’s persistent.

“Besides,” she adds sunnily, “that History paper isn’t due until next week. I talked to your classmate, Douglas what’s-his-face, so don’t bother lying about it.”

Laura finally stops the insistent jumping, and sits down on his bed like she owns it.

“More like you flirted with him to get your intel,” Derek mutters darkly, shooting his sister a resigned glare. “It doesn’t matter when it’s due. I’m working on it now, whether you like it or not.”

For a blessed few moments Laura is silent. Derek almost starts to believe she’s given up. Almost. A quick glimpse in her direction and it’s clear she’s only regrouping and changing tactics. Dirty tactics.

“It’s not gonna work,” says Derek firmly, shaking his head. “It’s been years sine your puppy-dog routine worked on me.”

“But it’s your Junior prom!” Laura wails dramatically, voice going up several octaves and oh god! Now there are actual tears. Fake, of course, but A for effort. Someone with less experience might be fooled.

“You should seriously take up Drama,” Derek comments dryly. “Beacon Hills could use your talents for the upcoming production of ‘Our Town’.” Laura answers with a long-suffering whine.

“Think of all the hearts you’ll be breaking by not showing up! Think of all the precious high school memories you’ll be missing out on. Think of -”

“- all the money you’ll win if I go?” Derek arches an eyebrow in her direction. “You’ve got a bet going on this, haven’t you?”

To the untrained eye Laura is the epitome of innocence. To Derek she’s a Mean Girl reincarnated.

“I have no idea what you’re insinuating,” she says, twinning a lock of hair around her index finger.

“Sure. A likely story. It changes nothing. I’m not going, and that’s final!”

“Argh!” Laura growls and jumps off the bed in a flurry of billowing hair and creative curse words. “Would it actually kill you to have some fun for once?”

“Probably,” he answers sweetly. “Better not risk it. Please, close the door behind -.”

The rest is drowned out by the sound of the door slamming shut, rattling the frames holding faded photos of pompous-looking Hale ancestors out in the hallway. Derek returns to his assignment with a wide grin, although he doesn’t feel nearly as triumphant by the win as he expected.

Would it kill him to go to prom? To have some fun? To let loose a little?

The questions haunt him for the rest of the night, but he resist the urge to test it. Later he would learn that, no. It wouldn’t kill him. But it would kill the people he cared about. Loving Paige had been fun. Until she died. Getting involved with Kate was exiting and exhilarating. Until she killed the majority of his family. Creating a pack was fun. Until Boyd and Erica died.

Fun and Derek just didn’t mix. Not even Laura could change that fact, no matter how much she kept pestering him about it, even in the afterlife.

 

___________

  
A voice startles him out of his reverie.

 _His_ voice.

“So, this is where you’re hiding these days, Sourwolf?”

Derek’s heartbeat jumps into hyper-drive, body strumming with a confusing mix of ecstatic thrill, apprehension and annoyance. _Sourwolf_. That nickname still gets under his skin. At least that’s what he’s telling himself. All other explanations are worthless. He’s leaving, after all.

Derek glances up at Stiles. He’s smirking, arms crossed, stance cocky. His eyes and heartbeat betray him, though. He’s not nearly as cool as he’s letting on. His heart’s galloping madly, and his eyes reflect poorly masked fear. It relaxes him somewhat to realize they’re both on shaky ground here. Equals, and equally nervous.

“Not my favorite place in the world, I’ll admit,” continues Stiles, glancing around the clearing. “I sacrificed my favorite bat to keep the roof of the root cellar from collapsing atop of my dad, Chris Argent, Isaac, Mrs. McCall and Allison. Totally worth it, of course. Still, would much have preferred to not have to be in the situation where a bat was needed for a dramatic save from magically created storms. Oh well, bygones.”

The word vomit washes over Derek, comfortable and comforting, like Stiles’ constant babbling surprisingly always is, momentarily lulling him. He’s not really paying attention to what Stiles is saying, too preoccupied with the fact that he’s actually here. This place was supposed to be safe. Undetectable. The last place anyone should look for him, or find for that matter.

“You’re not supposed to be able to find this place,” he blurts. Stiles stops mid-rant, eyebrows arched high.

“And hello to you, too,” he quips, but there’s no bite to his words. “Your social skills are just as lacking as always.”

Derek rolls his eyes, some of his composure and wits returning after being momentarily paralyzed by Stiles’ surprising appearance.

“The Nemeton is a supernatural phenomena, Stiles. It moves around, and I was told only supernatural creatures can find it. Did Scott help you?”

“Scott?” Stiles scoffs. “Yeah, sure. Like I’m gonna ask Scott to tag along for this.” He twirls his fingers in the air between them. Derek’s heart skips a beat. What does that even mean?

“Besides,” he continues smugly. “I’ve found this place myself before, so either you’re misinformed or someone forgot to send me an owl on my eleventh birthday. Come to think of it, I did once manage to turn a handful of Mountain ash into a ridiculously long line, so I’m leaning towards magical warlock. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

He waggles his eyebrows and looks positively deranged.

“I think it’s the single scariest thing I’ve heard in my life,” he deadpans. Stiles pouts.

“Ah, dude. Don’t make me out to be Voldemort. I could be totally awesome!”

Derek bites his tongue. It’s probably best to let the matter rest for now, before Stiles decides to try out weird incantations and flood the whole valley or something equally disastrous in the process. Oddly enough, Derek doesn’t doubt for a moment he could do it if he tried.

They fall silent for a moment. Derek’s still sitting atop the Nemeton, hands absentmindedly tracing the lines of the wood. Stiles has picked up a branch and is using it to write invisible messages in the fallen leaves. Every so often he will draw a deep breath, then sigh and run a hand through his hair. It sticks out in all directions, like a messy nest. He looks adorable.

“How did you find me?”

The question clearly takes Stiles aback, because he startles slightly, eyes skimming across Derek’s face, like he’s trying to assess his mood.

“Dude, I thought we already covered my latent magical mojo. I’m signing up for lessons with Deaton, just FYI. I have a feeling he’s been holding out on me. Although, the idea of Deaton as my Yoda is somewhat unsettling.”

“No.” Derek shakes his head, hiding a small smile, for a moment reminded of Laura. “I mean, how did you know where to look? I hid my scent. I doubt the wolves picked it up. So, how did you know where to go?”

Stiles fidgets, pulling nervously at the drawstrings on his hoodie.

“A matter of deduction, mainly,” he admits with a small flail. “Cora had already covered all the obvious contenders, like the loft, out by the ruin of your house, etc.” He looks up, meeting Derek’s eyes, a small grin playing at his lips. “In a way I suppose you could say Peter gave me the clue.”

“Peter?” Derek’s eyes pop. “You went to see Peter? At Eichen?”

“Are you mental?” Stiles stares at him incredulously, like Derek’s finally lost the last few marbles he had. “I’ll have you know I’ve spent my last seconds at Eichen, and I would never go back for anything, least of all Peter. No offense to your Uncle, but he kind of dug his own grave on that one. I find him vaguely entertaining in small doses, but not enough to risk my mental sanity. Sorry.”

“Then how?”

Stiles rubs the back of his neck nervously, a gesture Derek’s seen before. Usually before things get awkward. In this case, more awkward than it already is.

“It was after Boyd died,” Stiles starts, voice soft. “You went missing for a few days, and I kind of grew worried. I showed up at the loft, confronting Peter and Cora about it.”

“You did?” Derek’s heart does a funny little skip. “I didn’t know that.”

Stiles shrugs minutely, ears tinged red.

“Peter told me a story of how you hid at the Nemeton for days once, when hunters were on your trail. That it was what you’d been taught. To hide and heal.”

Derek nods slowly. He remembers that, both the lesson drilled into them from a young age and the incident which trapped Peter and him here for days.

“True, we did hide here. Why would you think I would do that again? Now? I’m not hurt.”

Stiles is wringing his hands, braiding those impossibly long fingers of his into intricate knots. Derek aches to reach out, to touch, to hold.

“It was something Cora said to me. She came to see me last night. You’ve got her worried, you know.”

Derek hangs his head. He knows.

“She said you run off to hide when you feel threatened emotionally. Kind of like a warped version of what you did back then, chased by hunters. The difference being, now the only thing chasing you are your own feelings. Or something.”

Derek’s at a loss for words. Not that he’s particularly talkative at the best of times, but now he feels paralyzed and muted. Stiles must sense that he’s not ready to respond, because he keeps on talking, like he’s pricked a hole in a dam and it’s about to break. Derek’s petrified of what it might reveal, but powerless to stop it.

“You can threaten me with your teeth or whatnot if you want, cause this is kind of me butting into your private business, so sorry in advance. It just got me thinking, and I realized Cora was on to something. You do tend to run off, not when danger lurks or monsters attack, but rather in the wake of shit. When the consequences are unfavorable. I should know, I do the same. Only I hide behind sarcasm, witty banter and a lot of bluster. It’s my shield in a way. So people won’t see how damaged and broken I really am.”

Derek can feel his defenses kicking in, and the urge to lash out and run off almost overwhelms him. If it wasn’t for the calming, yet slightly clammy hand Stiles puts on his arm, he might have acted on it. It takes him by surprise, not least of all how Stiles had managed to move so close without his senses kicking into overdrive.

“I know this is where Paige died.”

Stiles voice is soft, almost inaudible. Apologetic. Empathetic.

Derek’s breath hitches and an involuntary choked sound escapes, almost like a sob.

“You know about Paige?” he manages, voice raw. Stiles nods.

“Peter,” he says as a way of explaining. “I doubt I got the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Or at least only the truth according to Peter. Somehow I suspect that might be a bit skewed.” He pauses slightly, and Derek can virtually feel his eyes roaming his face, probably trying to interpret his reaction.

“I’d like to hear more about her someday. If you want, of course.”

Derek can little do but shrug, not trusting his voice. He might actually like that. Talking about Paige with someone not biased, someone who wants to listen. Only, he’ll not stay around long enough for that to happen. He can’t. If he does, Stiles is doomed to end up just like her.

Dead.

For a little while the only sound around the odd clearing is that of chirping birds and the crunching of leaves as Stiles fidgets next to him. Unsurprisingly it doesn’t take long for him to break the silence.

“I’ll totally understand if you don’t wanna talk about your dead girlfriend. God, I sound insensitive. Sorry. I mean, that’s personal and takes trust, I guess. I’m just offering. Totally your call.”

He draws a deep breath and before Derek has the presence of mind to respond, he barrels on.

“At the very least I would like to know the real story behind why some werewolves have blue eyes. No offense to Peter - or wait, no, I take that back. All offense to Peter, cause I think he’s a lying sack of shit most of the time. Or at the very least an expert bender of truths.”

“What did he tell you?”

Stiles startles. Almost like he’s forgotten Derek is there, and has resigned himself to a lengthy monologue and little actual conversation.

“He said taking an innocent life made your eyes turn blue. That you killed Paige and it changed you.”

It’s blunt and it hurts. Yet Derek’s not surprised. It’s a common misconstruction after all. One that he knows Peter is aware of, and yet deliberately spoon-fed to Stiles, perhaps in a ploy to further his own agenda. Derek doesn’t care. He’s done playing Peter’s games. He’s done in general.

“Peter knows better than that,” he mumbles. Stiles barks out a triumphant laugh.

“I knew it!” he crows gleefully. “I never bought that explanation for a second, and yet I couldn’t find any information about it. Nothing credible at any rate.”

He glances over, pinning Derek with those huge, honey-warm Bambi-eyes of his.

“Would you tell me? Please?”

What harm could it do? It won’t change anything. Not his past, not the path of his future. He might as well cure Stiles’ curiosity on the matter. Like a parting gift, in a way.

“You can get blue eyes without killing,” Derek starts hesitantly. He was never really great at explaining things. Not like Laura who reveled in oral presentations. “It has nothing to do with taking innocent lives.” He snorts incredulously. “How could it? What decides who’s innocent and not?”

“Exactly,” Stiles agrees, eyes alight. “I was thinking the exact same thing. I thought maybe it had more to do with guilt,” he admits. It’s a good theory.

“Taking pain to the point of partially or fully depleting someone’s supernatural essence changes your eyes. If you drained pain from a human, it wouldn’t give you blue eyes. It could kill the human, though, which is why my parents always cautioned us against it.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, but he doesn’t comment, probably thinking of Scott, who Derek knows does this on occasion. Derek draws a deep breath and continues.

“Paige was bitten. Her body was flooded with supernatural energy, but it wasn’t taking. We still don’t know why some humans reject the bite, but she clearly did. I was desperate to help her any way I could, so I tried to drain it all out. I absorbed as much of it as I could, both the essence and her pain, but it was of little use. Her body was too damaged to survive. She was doomed either way.”

Derek can’t help it. He seeks out Stiles’ eyes, desperate to make him understand. “I knew the risk, but I had to try. I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.”

The hand on his arm squeezes reassuringly. It tells him more than any words could, and he soaks it up like a dried-up sponge, greedily and desperate.

“There are people who’ve done that for power. That’s why it’s got a bad rep. You do gain some supernatural energy, but it doesn’t really make you stronger or more powerful. You’ve just contracted something foreign, something that doesn’t belong. For it to be a part of you, something needs to give. For some odd reason, it changes the color of your eyes.” He sighs deeply, shoulders slumped.

“My parents taught us this, but I know the rumors and the myths. I always felt different, but that just made it worse somehow. To be stuck with an eye color that tells the world a story about you that’s not necessarily true.”

“Is that how you lost your alpha spark?” Stiles asks tentatively. Derek nods, once again marveling at how smart he is. How he connects dots so effortlessly and smoothly. How he sees the bigger picture, sees the nuances other people miss.

“Yes,” he swallows thickly. “I drained the poison in Cora’s body, took her pain to the level where some of her supernatural energy followed through. It cost me my alpha power. It was worth it, though.”

Derek can feel Stiles nodding, but he’s too scared to actually look. He feels drained and on the edge. Of what he doesn’t know. It could be despair, of a breakdown or running off again. No one says a word for the longest time.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

It’s a simple sentence. No flair, no drama. Straight to the point. And yet, utterly untrue.

Derek jerks back violently, fangs and claws out, eyes flashing electric blue. Stiles remains eerily still. Unmoving. Solid.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats, voice growing stronger. “I don’t know the full story, but I know you. You never meant for Paige to get hurt. You loved her, and did everything you could to save her. Her death was not your fault.”

There’s now a low whine echoing across the clearing. It takes a few seconds for Derek to realize it’s coming from him. If Stiles notices, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he continues talking.

“The fire wasn’t your fault.”

A howl venerates the air.

“Kate Argent took advantage of a sixteen year old boy. She used you to set her trap. It wasn’t your fault.”

How does Stiles even know these things? Derek’s very soul is cracking. He needs to go! He needs to leave. To flee. To get away. Now!

But the hand on his arm just squeezes tighter, grounding him.

“Laura’s death was not your fault. Neither were Erica’s or Boyd’s. You’re not the death omen you seem to think you are. You’re just someone who’s been subjected to more pain and loss than anyone should in a lifetime.”

“You don’t get it,” Derek chokes out, shaking his head.

“Don’t I?”

Stiles grabs hold of his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. The hand on Derek’s face burns hot in a way that sends shivers down to his toes. He’s unable to look away, even as Stiles begins to speak, words spilling out, intense and honest.

“I’ve lost people, too. I know guilt better than most. I spent years believing it was my fault my mom died. In a way I still do. I was a handful as a kid, and she used to joke that I drained her dry with all my antics. So when she got sick, I was convinced it was because of me. When Scott was bitten, I blamed myself. I was the one who dragged him into the woods that night. I blame myself for what happened to Erica and Boyd. I was trapped inside the Argent’s house with them, and didn’t do enough to get them out. I killed Donovan. Hell, I was possessed and wreaked more havoc in this town than all the supernatural villains we’ve seen combined. Derek, my dad almost died because of me!”

Stiles is yelling by now, his distressed voice cutting through the air like a deadly sword.

“None of that was your fault,” echos Derek, and in that moment he gets it. Understand where Stiles is coming from, what he’s trying to say, and yet he still can’t fully accept it.

“Exactly,” whispers Stiles, eyes shiny with unshed tears.

“It’s not the same,” he mutters.

“Nothing’s the same,” Stiles answers, a shadow of his usual sarcasm peeking out. “But it’s close enough. I hid all my guilt away for a long time. Never spoke of it, just barreled on, bottling it up and it was tearing me apart. It was destroying my relationships and my mental health. I finally opened up about it, thanks to you. Realized things are not so black and white as we stupid idiots sometimes make it out to be. So,” he says, cocking his head to the side, eyes sweeping over Derek’s face. “The way I figure, it’s my turn to help you now.”

“How?”

Stiles smiles brightly. He looks kind of insane, lips crooked and one eyebrow raised higher than the other. Yet, he’s stunning and incredible, and Derek can’t help drinking it all in.

“By giving you a reason to stop running,” he whispers, heartbeat rabbiting wildly as he leans in slowly.

And then he kisses him. Wetly, deeply and passionately. Derek freezes for a moment, then he lets go. Allows the tsunami of love he feels for this insufferable blabbermouth envelop him snugly, before surrendering to it utterly and completely.

From the moment Derek met Stiles Stilinski he was always unpredictable. He never acted like Derek expected. Defied preconceived notions and stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. Now, he’s sticking his tongue in his mouth, and Derek can honestly say it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

In the back of his mind a voice sounding eerily like his younger self, chides him. Orders him to stop. To go, to leave Stiles. To save him, to save them both. The trilling laugh of Laura however, cheers him on, catcalls and whistles, and for once Derek listens to her.

It’s hard to say how long they stay like that, draped awkwardly atop the Nemeton, kissing like their lives depend on it. It could be hours, most likely not more than minutes, but when they finally pull apart, Derek knows, without a sliver of a doubt that he’ll never be able to give this up.

Stiles is laughing softly, his forehead bumping into Derek’s.

“So, that was kind of awesome.”

Derek snorts. It’s such a Stiles thing to say. Blunt and silly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, smiling brightly. “It really was.”

“So, can I trust you not to run off to Chile. Or Guatemala?” asks Stiles, rubbing their noses together in little Eskimo kisses.

“I’ll think about it,” he answers coyly, earning himself a smack to the torso.

“I promise I’m totally worth the risk,” Stiles jokes, eyebrows waggling erratically like electrocuted worms. “I might even put out on the second date.”

Derek suddenly sobers. Risk. That’s exactly what this is. A great risk. Leaps like this have always ended in death and heartbreak, guilt and misery.

“Oh no, I know that look.” Stiles is shaking his head, lips pursed in a grim line.

“You’re over-thinking things again.”

“You’re the one always blabbing on about patterns!” The words tumbles out, harsh and true. “One’s an incident, two’s a coincident, and three’s-”

“- a pattern. Yes, I know. But what I also know is that patterns can be broken. And sometimes patterns aren’t really patterns at all. You see, patterns are deliberate. The incidents in your life that have scared you, were never that. They weren’t intentional acts on your part. Those were just unfortunate events lining up in a fake pattern, making you think everything you care about will die or be destroyed.”

It’s uncanny how Stiles can read him. If he wasn’t so damned enthralled by this button-nosed know-it all with the spastic arm flails, Derek might be scared. Instead, he’s reassured.

“True, I might die tomorrow,” Stiles continues, “but if I do, the chances are it will be entirely my own fault. I could choke on a peanut. Slip on a banana peel. Or with my luck, get mauled by a mountain lion.”

Stiles flails as he speaks, several times nearly whacking Derek across the nose.

“I can’t have my heart broken again.”

The admission is whispered, yet louder words were never spoken.

“I know,” replies Stiles, entwining their fingers. “I would never break your heart, I swear. I’d only, you know, rearrange it a bit. Nothing major. I swear the other working parts will stay in place,” he adds cheekily. Derek can’t help but snort, shaking his head.

“You’re insane.”

“Insanely handsome, yes I get that all the time. Now that we’ve cleared up this dreadful business about you trying to flee, can we perhaps get back to more pressing matters?”

Derek knits his eyebrows together in confusion.

“What pressing matters? What’s wrong?”

Stiles grins widely, more or less climbing into Derek’s lap. He in turn is too paralyzed with shock, wonder, and ill-concealed happiness to do anything about it. Not that he wants to. A lap-full of Stiles is way better than anything he can imagine.

“Come closer, and I’ll press my matter against you,” Stiles purrs in what is probably meant to be a flirtatious tone. Derek laughs so hard and loudly several flocks of birds take flight in distress. A few moments later the laughter turns into throaty moans, but by then they’re both too preoccupied to even notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go, sort of an epilogue, I guess.  
> Also, finally the word "rearrange" was used, hence the title of this fic. Stiles' words are paraphrased from the song "Rearrange" by Biffy Clyro. It always made me think of Sterek somehow when listening to the lyrics.  
> As always, comments and kudos are most welcome. You can even come say hi on tumblr if you want, there I'm Darachmoon.


	20. Chapter 20

“Finding out you’re ticklish is the best present ever.”

Stiles is delighted, ghosting his long fingers tenderly across Derek’s back, watching him squirm slightly, leaving behind a trail of fine hairs raising to attention. He feels like a conductor, using his hands to draw out a perfect symphony of little noises, ranging from delighted chuckles to throaty moans.

“It’s not even your birthday,” Derek mumbles, his voice muffled by the bedspread.

“I’m betting every day will feel like a birthday with you, babe,” Stiles croons, causing Derek to produce a series of retching noises. It’s a testament to how far gone he is that he finds even that adorable.

“You’re so lame.”

“Whatever float your boat, Squirm-Wolf.”

Stiles stops his exploration and instead kisses the nape of Derek’s neck. It’s his favorite spot. So far. In the span of the last few of hours he’s found a lot of these, and he’s not yet done exploring. It’s weird that not even a day has passed since Stiles found Derek moping by the Nemeton. It feels longer, given how much has changed in such a short amount of time, but he’s not complaining. For once it’s a good kind of change.

Mostly they’ve kissed and groped. Sometimes frantically, other times softly and almost shyly. Miraculously, they’ve managed to move the display to Stiles’ bedroom, with just a few minor stops and detours on the way. For someone so hell-bent on running away, Derek sure seems at home between Stiles’ sheets. It’s the kind of 180 turn Stiles can totally get behind. Literally.

“I’m gonna get so tired of your odd terms of endearment, I just know it,” Derek drawls, allowing his hand to travel the length of Stiles’ torso. It sets of a series of jerks and spasms he’s powerless to stop.

“I don’t see how you can ever get tired of all of this.” Stiles nuzzles into Derek like a cuddly cat. His efforts seem to be judged as both adorable and arousing. Stiles categorizes it as a win. A _big_ win, and he’s about to claim his prize…

A shrill ring tone jerks them both back to reality. On the nightstand, Stiles’ phone buzzes like an angry bee, just inches away from toppling off the edge.‘Daddy Cool’ plays in a continuous loop.

“Oh, crap! Sorry, that’s dad calling. He’s on a crazy check-up schedule, terrified I might be whisked off to never never land again if I’m left unguarded. I better answer before he sends in a SWAT team to check up on me.”

He crawls across Derek, bumping into interesting parts of his anatomy in the process. Derek wheezes out a muffled groan.

“Stop that,” Stiles admonishes. “Don’t make sexy sounds when I’m about to talk to my old man.”

He snatches the phone virtually mid-air as gravity wins, accepting the call with no grace whatsoever. If Derek hadn’t grabbed hold of his arm, he would’ve tumbled to the floor.

“Yo, daddy-o! What’s shaking, dog?”

Derek’s head shakes, and by the sound of the long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line, his dad is mirroring this.

“Well, if I’ve learned anything from my years of parenting you, it’s that your greetings get progressively more lame the more trouble you’re in. What did you do this time?”

Stiles splutters indignantly, looking to Derek for help but he’s too busy muffling his laughter in a pillow.

“I resent that! I didn’t do nothing!”

“No?” Stiles can practically hear his dad’s eyebrows raising into his slightly receding hairline. “Not even Derek?”

“What?”

Stiles’ voice climbs several octaves at record breaking speed. Next to him Derek freezes, obviously eavesdropping on the conversation.

“I’m staring at a several reports received today about borderline indecent exposure in public areas involving two males and a baby-blue Jeep. That could of course be just about anyone, I suppose.”

Derek looks stricken, guilty and no! No, no, no, no, no! Stiles scrambles back onto bed, planting himself in Derek’s lap. There’s no way he’s letting him run off again. He’s just the kind of guy to take even the smallest setbacks as a sign things are going to shits.

“Dad, I can -” Stiles begins, voice pleading, but before he can even finish the sentence he’s cut off by the whir of a machine.

“For your information, that’s the sound of my shredder,” his dad supplies casually. The whir stops for a moment, Stiles can hear papers rustling, then the whir starts again.

“There goes the report from one Mr. Clarkson. Oh, yes. That’s the fellow that owns the butcher’s shop on Fourth. Might want to avoid ‘parking’ near his establishment in the future. He’s a notorious complainer, and now that his business is struggling, he’s on a warpath with the world at large.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles’ heart swells. His dad is awesome. The awesomest, in fact.

“Don’t mention it, son. I gather thing went well with Derek, then?”

“Yeah.”

What else can he say, really? So far, so good, at any rate.

“Let me guess? He’s there with you now? In that case; Derek, thank you. I owe you my son’s life, and I’m eternally grateful. However, hurt him, and I’ll hunt you down like a dog. Or wolf. You catch my drift?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Daaaaad,” Stiles whines, light-years beyond embarrassed.

“Suck it up, son. When your heart is on the line, it’s a father’s prerogative to threaten. Which means Derek should know I have copious amounts of wolfsbane bullets on hand, and Chris Argent on speed-dial.”

“This is because he’s a guy, isn’t it? I bet you never threatened Malia.” Stiles feels fired up and indignant on Derek’s behalf. The Sheriff simply sighs long-suffering.

“I didn’t threaten Malia because she was never in a position to truly hurt you.”

Stiles glances at Derek and takes small comfort in the fact that he seems as genuinely discomposed as he is. Also, he looks damned adorable, with his mussed hair and red-tinged cheeks beneath the scruff that’s surprisingly softer than Stiles had imagined. He’ll still have a nasty beard-burn, there’s no getting past that, but he’s already texted Lydia who’s more than willing to come by later with an assortment of remedies. The string of suggestive emojis included in her reply suggests she’s more than interested in some juicy details, though. Somehow that doesn’t surprise him in the slightest.

“Anyway, that’s not why I called.”

“No? Please, don’t tell me there are new monsters already! I need a break. I’ve _earned_ a break! Also, you made sure Ben and his family is okay, right? You promised you would.”

What can he say? Stiles actually grew fond of the little urchin. Might even be considering going for a visit if everything's back as it should. Dread Doctor kidnapping victims should totally stick together. Form a support group, or some shit like that. Or just hang out and eat candy. That works, too.

“They're fine," his dad reassures and Stiles lets out a long breath."

"Also, no monsters. No, wait. That’s not entirely accurate. Definitely a monster, but I suspect you’ll take great pleasure in this development.”

Stiles can feel his dad’s grin wafting through the phone.

“Really? Spit it out, then. I have important business to attend to.” Stiles allows his foot to graze Derek’s crotch area - entirely by accident, of course.

“Sweet, lord. Now I have an assortment of very unwanted mental images,” the Sheriff mutters. Derek follows up with a poorly muffled moan.

“Hold on, I’m gonna to send you some images instead, quite literally. I think you’ll find them highly satisfying.”

“You’re texting me photos? How progressive and hip of you.”

Stiles switches to speaker, opening the message mid-beep. He stares at the images in slight disbelief, sliding back and forth to make sure he’s seeing things correctly. When he’s positive this is not a drill, he lets out a triumphant cry.

“Yes! Now, this is a gift! I’d like to thank the Old Gods and the Seven, - hell, I’ll even tip a hat, or a bucket of water might be more appropriate, to the Drowned God.”

“You’re rambling,” Derek informs him dryly, scooting up on the bed, so his head is propped up against the headboard. “Also, you left out R’hllor. You shouldn’t disregard the Lord of Light. You know better than most that the night is dark and full of terrors.”

Stiles stares at Derek in unconcealed disbelief for a few seconds before kissing him soundly.

“You’re secret nerd! This is even better than you being ticklish!”

“Why did I call?” his dad mumbles, more to himself than anyone. Stiles ignores him, continuing to gaze at Derek in awe. Derek rolls his eyes, but looks pleased none the less.

“Are you gonna tell me what you’re thanking the heavens for, or should I just guess? Curly fries? Your Hogwarts’ letter finally came? Macy’s is having a sale on plaid?”

Stiles guffaws. Derek telling jokes is honestly such a treat, lame as they are.

“No, silly.”

Stiles averts his attention back to the phone, chuckling gleefully under his breath.

“Yo, dad. You still there? I need details. Now!”

He shoves the phone in Derek’s face, eager for him to share in the joy.

“Is that - _Harris_?” he asks, doing that sexy one-raised-eyebrow thing he’s really good at. Stiles is momentarily distracted.

“Yup.” He takes great pleasure in popping the P. “The one and only. Or, I hope he’s the one and only. Think of the horror if it was revealed he has a twin. An evil twin. Eviler twin, I mean. Harris is actually already evil by default. Be glad you’ve not heard Harris sing the blues. It’s pure torture.”

“Is he wearing handcuffs?”

Derek crinkles his nose when he squints. It’s distracting. Stiles quells the urge to trace the lines in his skin. Instead, he watches gleefully as Derek takes in the well-documented event of Harris getting his comeuppance.

“Yes, that is Adrian Harris, and he’s definitely wearing handcuffs,” confirms the sheriff, sounding like he’s seriously regretting calling at all.

“Tell me more, tell me more! Like, is he behind bars?” Stiles sings, horribly off key.

A sigh trickles over the phone, but it’s more in relief than anything.

“Yes, Stiles. He’s behind bars. We picked him up earlier today. He’s just been processed and we’re waiting for his lawyer to show up before we start the interrogation.”

“Wait, what did you arrest him for exactly?” Derek looks confused. “I get that the blues was bad, but last I checked that wasn’t a felony.”

“Please, never quit your day job for comedy,” pleads Stiles swatting Derek’s fingers away to get control of his phone again. “Not that you have a day job per say. What do yo do all day? Besides stalk people, of course.”

“That’s a topic for later.” Derek sounds vaguely embarrassed, which naturally peaks Stiles’ curiosity. It’s probably something lame. Like day-trading.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Stiles warns.

“Okay, so here’s the short version of things,” starts his dad, effectively getting their attention back on track. “Basically, Harris has been charged with a plethora of charges, including statutory rape-”

“I’d almost forgotten about that!” Stiles interjects with a shudder. “He kept dating his students, some of the underage. I wasn’t even aware you were aware of that,” he ads as an afterthought, directed at his dad.

“And I could argue I wasn’t aware that you were aware, and if so why didn’t you report it?”

Stiles squirms. “Basically, because Scott stumbled across him with a student at an illegal rave where we may or may not have been in the first place to catch the kanima aka Jackson.”

“Why do I even ask?” his dad mutters under his breath. “More importantly, he’s been charged with aiding Jennifer Blake on her threefold death murder spree, as well as providing Kate Argent information on how to burn down the Hale house. The evidence is staggering. I’ve been working this angle for a while, in case Harris ever turned up again, pretty much on Stiles’ insistence.”

“For once, someone actually listened to my gut feelings and ramblings.”

Stiles feels a staggering mixture of incredulity and pride.

“How about that? I’m savoring the moment,” he tells the room at large. Derek answers by pulling him close, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

“I always listened to you,” he mumbles, the words partly drowned out by the series of small gasps and pants this elicits.

“I didn’t know that,” Stiles complains half-heartedly. “You always just glared and threatened me with bodily harm. How was I supposed to know you even vaguely liked me?”

“Aaaaaand, that’s my clue to hang up!” Stiles’ dad ends the phone call without so much as a goodbye. Not that any of them notice or care.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” says Derek bashfully.

“Well, that’s just stupid,” Stiles scoffs. “This hiding-your-emotions-spiel stops as of right now, you hear me?”

Derek grins wolfishly, nippling lightly on an earlobe.

“Affirmative,” he whispers huskily and Stiles throws the remnants of his self-control out the window. Soon after his clothes hit the floor. Their lips meet in a frenzied kiss that quickly escalates. Everything is a hazy daze of pleasure to the point where Stiles blocks out everything aside from Derek. The piercing shriek and loud thump, however is heard to ignore.

“What the fuck was that?” he gasps, untangling from Derek, hair a mess, lips (and other parts of his anatomy) swollen.

“Scott.”

Oh. _Crap_.

“Scott? You sure?” Stiles stumbles towards the window, peering outside, but the ground beneath is perfectly Scott-free.

“Oh yes, perfectly sure,” drawls Derek, amused. “I can hear him. He’s hiding in the bushes, cursing and spluttering. He can totally see you - _all of you_. Might want to either retreat or cover yourself.”

“Sorry!” Stiles hollers out the window, adding a little wave. Sure enough, the hydrangea bushes by the shed rustles unnaturally in answer. He turns around, doing a little shimmy just for kicks, before leaping back onto the bed.

“He’s threatening to unfriend you,” Derek supplies helpfully. Stiles barks out a laugh.

“He’s well-aware that I have suffered years of too-much-information about all his girlfriends. This should not scar him for life. Also, tell him to bugger off. Unless he wants to stay and hear me suck you off.”

Derek’s face takes on an interesting shade of magenta. Even Stiles’ human ears pick up the distressed yell from outside.

“Bye, Scott!” he hollers, slithering to his knees, never breaking eye contact with Derek.

“Is he gone?”

Derek nods, swallowing audibly. A little while later, Stiles does the same.

 

 

***

 

 

“I must admit, I was not expecting to see you again anytime soon.”

Derek doesn’t answer at first. Simply stares, wondering for the umpteenth time what he’s really doing here. On the other side of the glass, Peter looks just as smug and condescending as always. Derek can feel an itch at the back of his neck where his claws had dug into him to help remember Stiles’ real name. There are no scars, so it’s all phantom pains. Still, it almost feels as if a little bit of Peter lingers under his skin, infectious and festering.

“Thank you for the new reading material,” Peter continues, unperturbed by Derek’s silence. He gestures lazily to the sizable pile by his sparse bed.

“The Twilight Saga was an unwelcome find, but I suppose I set myself up for that. It’s a testament to the dullness of this place when I’m actually starting to warm up to the concept of glittery vampires. I’m just thankful you included something worthwhile as well.”

That brings a twinge to Derek’s lips, but he quickly wipes his mirth away. He’s a man of his word and will uphold his promise to provide Peter with books, but he’ll be loathe to let the opportunity to torture him a bit go by.

“You should look forward to next months selection. I was thinking of including 50 Shades of Grey.”

Peter actually pales, which makes the whole trip down here worth it. Derek makes a mental note to come true on his threat, but maybe hold off for a few months. Lull Peter into thinking he was joking, and then boom - just send those books and nothing else. Stiles would love that. Perhaps they can even convince some of the orderlies to film it?

“You wouldn’t?” Peter hisses, stepping closer to the glass. Derek simply waggles his eyebrows. It’s good to feel like he’s got the upper hand for once. In lieu of an answer he simply takes a few steps back, leaning casually against the opposite wall. Peter’s eyes narrow into slits.

“Something is different,” he comments, raking beady eyes over him like a supernatural X-Ray machine. Derek shrugs nonchalantly, whereupon Peter’s face splits into a wide grin. The sight is somewhat disconcerting.

“My, my.”

His uncle nods his head slightly, throwing in a wink. Derek suppresses a shudder. Peter was always odd. Now he’s just creepy.

“I suppose congratulations are in order. Finally nailed the Stilinski boy, did you?”

“More like he nailed me, but that’s just semantics,” Derek replies coolly. Peter’s jaw twinges a little, but he recovers swiftly.

“Someone’s in a _spunky_ mood. Good for you.”

Surprisingly, it looks like Peter actually means it. It throws him off a little. Even his scent wafts like satisfaction and - _pride_? Odd.

“So,” Peter continues, clasping his hands together, head cocked to the side. He looks like a deranged Disney villain. Derek finds it oddly fitting, but keeps the observation to himself.

“You still haven’t divulged the purpose of your little visit,” he continues. “I imagine it wasn’t exactly easy convincing Dr. Fenris to let you down here again.”

“True,” Derek concedes. It had taken the combined forces of Deaton and the Sheriff threatening to sue for neglectful treatment of his son before he relented. “I suspect I won’t be granted access again anytime soon.” He shrugs, not knowing what else to say. He’s not sad about it per say. Still, the concept of never seeing Peter again, is - disconcerting. He might be a raving lunatic, but he’s still family.

“Well, then I suppose you should make the most of it.” Peter smiles almost sadly. “By the way, you keep twiddling your fingers, I suspect you’ve got something to say. I suggest you spit it out, before Fenris kicks you out.”

Peter’s not wrong. He did come here for a reason.

“Do you remember when you dug through my brain to help find the memory I needed?”

“Vividly.” Peter smirks lopsidedly. Derek blushes.

“Why did you do that?” His voice is barely audible to human ears, but Peter clearly picks up on it.

“You asked me too,” he answers deadpan. Derek rolls his eyes.

“Obviously, and that’s not what I meant. I mean, why did you show me the other memories? The one about Paige. About meeting Stiles for the first time. You know perfectly well neither was what I was looking for.”

Peter nods, clasping his hands behind his back. “True. Still, it was something I thought you needed to see.”

“Why?”

Peter’s silent for a moment, staring at Derek with something that almost looks like fondness. The cells and corridor is badly lit, though. Probably just a trick of the light, Derek concludes. This is Peter, after all.

“To remind you that you’re capable of love, and that love was never really the issue,” Peter answers, no hint of lie detectable. “Despite what you seem to believe, your love didn’t kill Paige, Ennis did. The love for your family did not cause the fire, Kate did, and -.” He holds up a finger to quell Derek’s burgeoning protests. “Your feelings for Stiles does not put him in harms way, this fucking town manages that perfectly well on its own.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Derek mutters. Now it’s Peter’s turn to roll his eyes, and he truly is a master.

“Exactly my point. Memories lie. Memories deceive, especially when guilt is involved. Memories can be altered, we both know that, both by other people’s influence, but most of all by ourselves.”

He places a hand on the glass, leaning forward to catch Derek’s eyes.

“I had to sift through your jumbled mind to access the right memory, and when I caught glimpses of these, I knew I had to bring them to the forefront. To make you understand that what you feel now is just as powerful and true as what you felt for Paige. And that loving someone isn’t a bad thing. Quite the opposite in fact.”

Derek is silent for a while. Peter seems to pick up on his need to process, because he takes a few steps back, waiting patiently.

“So, if what you showed me was true, does that mean Grandma Corrine was right? Love smells like honeysuckle and pine?”

Peter snorts. “Gods no! That’s just absurd.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I added that for dramatic effect. To speed up the process, if you will. You can thank me by not bringing me 50 Shades of Grey.”

“You _edited_ my memories? How can I trust that what I saw was correct? I have tried my best to block out everything about Paige for the longest time.”

Peter shakes his head. “I didn’t change anything. I just added that. Call it a nudge, if you will. A way to highlight the things I wanted you to take note of.”

“You’re weird.”

Peter tips an invisible hat. “So I’ve been told. I can live with that, unlike some of the other stuff I’ve done, which is harder to get past.” He sighs morosely. “I know regrets, Derek. Better than most, and I don’t want you saddled with more of that than you need to. I saw an opportunity to help you along, and I took it. I’m not sorry. It’s what you do for family. For pack.”

He pauses, staring back at Derek, eyes open and honest for once, not a skip in his heartbeat. “Are you sorry I did?”

It’s good question? Is he? Sorry that Peter meddled?

Just the thought of Stiles’ upturned nose, the spatter of moles and freckles covering his skin, the sound of his laugh and the eagerness in which he kisses, is enough to chase all doubts away.

“No. I’m not.”

Derek steps up to the cell, placing both hands on the glass. Peter remains standing, a raw and vulnerably look on his face.

“Thank you,” he whispers. Peter nods minutely, then Derek walks off, knowing that he’ll never see his uncle again, but at least they parted on relatively good terms. Perhaps he won’t send 50 Shades of Grey after all.

 

  
***

 

  
“It’s beautiful.”

Stiles drinks in the spectacular view. Everything is so green and lush, and the colors so bright it feels as if someone’s tampered with the saturation.

“So are you.”

Stiles feels strong arms embrace him, the warm and comforting feeling of Derek pressing against his back. His breath tickles as it brushes across the sensitive area behind his ear. He can feel the smirk against his skin, meaning Derek did that entirely on purpose.

“Flattery will get you anywhere, preferably into my pants,” he jokes, leaning back into Derek, turning his head slightly to catch a chaste kiss.

“You’re so classy.”

“I know. It’s one of my many charms. Speaking of my charm, I think it was chiefly lost on the Twisted Sisters. They hate me.”

“They don’t hate you.”

“They totally do.”

Derek shakes his head. “You’re being paranoid. What gave you that idea?”

Stiles turns around, cuffing Derek over the head playfully. “They took my aside after dinner and told me plainly that they hated me and hoped I’d fall off a clip on our trip. They’re hot as hell, but batshit crazy. Just saying.”

“I’ll keep you safe, don’t worry,” Derek assures.

“My hero,” he deadpans. Derek chuckles, pulling him into a passionate kiss.

  
Later, after they’ve scared off the local wildlife with some enthusiastic lovemaking, they sit huddled together near the fire, watching the sun set over the valley.

“I’m glad I got to meet your other family,” says Stiles softly. “I like them. Most of them, anyway.”  
“Yeah, I like most of them, too. They’re not really my family, though.” Derek pauses for a moment, then whispers “you’re my family.”

Stiles’ heart swells to the point where he feels like he’s soaring. Even after months of being with Derek, these kinds of declarations still take him aback. Partly, because Derek never used to talk much, and never about feelings, and secondly because part of him still feels unworthy.

“And you’re mine,” he whispers back.

In a few weeks, Stiles will leave for Washington and the pre-FBI program Scott’s dad helped him get into. Leaving all the crazy supernatural mayhem behind will be a welcome reprieve. On the flip side, he’ll be separated from his dad, Scott, Lydia and all the others, which is decidedly more frightening. Things are changing. Changes used to terrify him. Leave him paralyzed with fear, scared of being alone, of being forgotten. Of not being loved. The Hunt took all those fears and made them true, even if it was just for a little while. Stiles now knows exactly how that feels, and his instinct is to dig his heels in and stay put. To fight change every step of the way with everything he’s got.

But he won’t. Being with Derek has shown him that not all change is for the worse. Leaving doesn’t necessarily mean he’s tearing relationships and friendships apart. He’s just rearranging them. And Derek - Derek will right there with him, every step of the way.

“Stiles?”

Derek’s voice is hesitant, a slight tremble detectable.

“Yeah?”

“I - I want to tell you about Paige. If you’ll let me.”

Lost for words, Stiles simply nods, taking Derek’s hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly. Every shred of doubt about Derek’s feelings for him, washes away with the words that spill out of him. He starts off hesitantly, but it doesn’t take long for the dam to break and it all pours out. Stiles feels drunk to the point of euphoria, engulfed in the level of trust Derek shows him. It’s the kind of trust he wants to return, wholeheartedly and fully.

Stories about Paige bleed into memories of Stiles’ mother, childhood memories from the Hale house, the pain of Claudia’s decease and death, and the love Talia had for all her children. When the sun rises again hours later, Stiles feels like he knows Derek on a whole other level. Almost as if the ghosts of their past are finally at peace, replaced by happy memories instead of haunted nightmares.

Bathed in the morning light, overlooking the beautiful Chilean valley and Derek by his side, he feels content in a way that’s new and promising. The future is sure to contain more monsters, regrets, successes and failures. The difference is, now he won’t face these things alone. Sometimes, that’s all you can ask for.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, that's it. Thank you so much for sticking with this story to the very end. As always, all feedback is very welcome. ♥♥♥ Remember, all is love and Sterek is forever :)


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